


A Neverwinter Knight in Thedas' Inquisition

by livvylive



Series: A Neverwinter Knight in Thedas' Inquisition [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Gen, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, two blonde nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvylive/pseuds/livvylive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A magical accident sends Nevalle, dedicated captain of the Neverwinter Nine, to a strange world where church leaders commit heresy and treason, demons fall from the sky, and a painful scar on his hand lands him in a position of more power than he ever wanted...</p><p>This work is not abandoned, but is something I will add to as time and ambition allow. Currently I am posting with only cursory editing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Neverwinter

The streets of Neverwinter were lively as they ever were, filled with myriad sights and sounds that changed with the city's districts. Blacklake was, as always, faintly perfumed by the flower gardens favored by the noble families who had their estates there. The Beggar's Nest, meanwhile, was a different world entirely, with the smell of filth and the faintly-sweet odor of decay floating through the air. Between the two lay the city center, where open air markets and shops of all sorts sent a loud rumble of endless chatter and other sounds of commerce into the air.

But it was the docks Nevalle was traveling, where the smell of salt air almost overpowered the odor of the fish markets and where watchful eyes remained on guard as shifty, furtive deals were brokered in back alleys. On any other night the knight's attentions might have been caught by those deals. As captain of Neverwinter's Nine, the elite cadre of knights sworn to protect and serve the ruler of the city, the broad-shouldered man was in charge of the City Watch. In practice he led the guards jointly with Captain Brelaina, but it was a duty he took as seriously as any other. Tonight, however, he and the squad of Watchmen and knights he was leading had greater concerns. Reports had come in a while back that claimed a strange wizard had found lodging near the waterside, and more than one informant had come forward to reveal that the caster had some odd master plot he was slowly bringing to fruition. That alone would not have been enough to prompt an arrest, but a few weeks of setting watchers on the man had revealed that he was trading in dark necromantic tools, and loosely tied to smugglers of poisons and slaves. That news had come in merely hours before, but already Nevalle and his warriors were prepared to bring the man into custody.

When they reached the small abandoned building the wizard had claimed, an old and emptied warehouse formerly home to nothing more than rats and mold, the well-trained men and women accompanying Nevalle quickly broke into small groups. One group, led by a knight named Melia, circled the building to cover and hold the back entrance, while three or four guardsmen moved to stand watch by the mouth of the alley that led to the building's main entrance to ensure the proceedings would not be interrupted by any of the many gangs and thugs that called the docks their home. The remained stood with Nevalle, who waited for a quick nod from each of them before abruptly turning and kicking in the locked wooden door with a loud, resounding crash. Within seconds, a similar crash echoed from the rear of the building.

Nevalle and his companions drew their swords with a hiss of metal on leather, and marched into the warehouse in a tight formation. They found themselves in an entry room, barely big enough for the small group and separated from the main area of the warehouse by another door. Nevalle tested the door and found it locked. A quick kick showed him it was sturdier than the half-rotted front door had been, so he stepped away and nodded sharply to the one man in the group armed with an axe rather than a sword. The hulking guard made quick work of the second door, all but knocking it from its hinges after a few blows, and Nevalle made a note to commend him for it later. Strength and efficiency deserved recognition.

Commendations of any sort, however, would have to wait until the wizard was dealt with. When he'd requested such a large group for the apprehension of a single man, a few of Nevalle's opponents in Lord Nasher's council- nobles less than fond of parting with their inherited coin for the sake of funding the guard, who typically seemed to prefer Nevalle be little more than the blonde, broad-shouldered figurehead of the Nine- had questioned the necessity of such a force. The knight had held his ground, countering every argument thrown his way with pointed reminders of the might of Luskan's Hosttower and the dangers posed by even a single Hosttower mage. The war between Luskan and Neverwinter was less than ten years in the past, and though the two cities were ostensibly in peace the potential for a new war always remained.  So in the end Nevalle had received the dozen men he'd requested. Upon seeing what awaited them when they rounded a corner into the main room of the warehouse, however, he began to wish he had asked for twice that number. What evidence they'd gathered had led Nevalle and the Watch to believe that the wizard was planning some sort of assassination attempt, or that he was involved in necromancy of the darkest sort. The scene before him, however, defied Nevalle's ability to describe it.

The wizard knelt in the middle of a complex magic circle, apparently burned into the floor and lined with what at first seemed to be butchered animals. Closer, inspection, however, revealed the truth: they were human corpses, dismembered and carefully arranged to perfectly line the circle. The wizard himself was shirtless, clad only in a hide kilt, and utterly emaciated. Nearly every bone in his upper body was harshly defined and horrifyingly visibly through thin yellowed skin, and what hair he had remaining hung from his head in greasy clumps. In front of him, a bizarre mirror jutted up from the bloodstained wooden floor. It seemed to be constructed from the shards of a dozen or more smaller mirrors. Jagged pieces of polished silver, reflective glass, and bright copper were forced together within a frame the likes of which Nevalle had never seen before. It was disturbingly organic in appearance, with what could only be described as branches twisting together to form its base and rising up and around the sides. A more ornate structure could be seen beneath the dark branches, all delicate spikes and whorls. The wizard knelt before the base, near enough to the mirror that his breath fogged the glass, and slowly rocked back and forth as a rhythmic chant fell endlessly from his cracked lips. The effect of his incantations could be seen deep within the depths of the mirror as hideously long-limbed figures prowled through a swirling green fog. They seemed to approach closer with every syllable the wizard uttered, and Nevalle was struck by a horrifying certainty that soon they would break the glass.

And that once they did, there would be no shutting them off from this plane.

For what felt like an hour but was no more than a moment, Nevalle and his allies were frozen as they stared at a sight none of them had expected to come across. It was all the stuff of horror stories, the sort of thing no man or woman was ever prepared to see. The scent of blood and rotting flesh filled the air, and the wizard's incantations thrummed in the air in such a way that they seemed to echo inside the minds of the onlookers. Where they had been expecting darkness they had found evil and ancient blood rites unlike anything they'd ever heard of. To a one they were men and women of steel, with more faith in sharp weapons and good shields than in magic. But to a one, they feared the magic before them.

Nevalle was the first to steel himself against that fear. "Do not let him finish the spell!" he cried, already bringing his sword to bear and rushing towards the circle. "Kill him if you must!" Their orders had been to arrest the wizard, but no orders could have been given in anticipation of a scene like this. The air was heavy with foul energy, and in between one heartbeat and another this had become more than an arrest. It had become a battle between a dozen warriors of Neverwinter and an evil none of them had expected to find.

The knight's orders pulled his companions from their frozen fear, and with battlecries of their own they leapt to follow their leader. Nevalle was the first to reach the circle, and as he stepped over the desecrated corpses a chill ran over his skin. He could feel the magic in the air, sticky and humid and foul. Worse, he could hear the tempo of the wizard's chant changing, reaching a crescendo. The caster was utterly focused on his terrible spell, and unless a single blow could cut through whatever protections he had undoubtedly cast on himself he would finish the ritual before Nevalle could stop him. Attacking the emaciated man would guarantee him victory. As if they knew the truth of the matter, the shapes in the mist of the mirror became increasingly more agitated, writhing and paces. A dim shrieking echoed from the mirror's glass, bringing with it a wave of terror that forced a few of the weaker-willed guards to turn away with cries of horror. Nevalle felt the push of that terror, but clung to the core of discipline he'd earned through his years of work in the service of Neverwinter. That discipline kept him running and earned him a precious few moments of utter clarity. The world slowed down for a moment, and a single, desperate course of action made itself plain to Nevalle. He could not risk attacking the wizard.

But he could break the mirror.

Nevalle rushed past the wizard with a loud cry, already wheeling his greatsword over his head to build momentum for a single crushing attack. The blow connected, the force of it buzzing sharply up Nevalle's wrists and arms with enough painful force to nearly loosen his grip on the sword's hilt. A series of spiderweb-thin cracks radiated from the spot in the center of the mirror where his sword was embedded in the glass, their crackling an odd counterpoint to the twin infuriated shrieks of the wizard and the creatures in the mist. Green light radiated from the cracks for a moment, blinding in its intensity. It quickly dimmed to almost nothing, the mist in the mirror beginning to recede as hope replaced Nevalle's fear.

Then everything exploded.


	2. Screams of a Dreamer

For a long time, Nevalle was lost in the darkness. It was a strange darkness, both real and unreal. He was aware of it without truly being aware, lost like a spirit drifting though thick fog in a world it cannot quite comprehend. The knight was hard-pressed to so much as guess at where he was, or how much time had passed since he arrived, or even at whom he was himself. Finally, however, the darkness gave way to cold earth, a distance chittering noise, and swirling green fog.

Blinking furiously in an attempt to focus his mind and sight on his surroundings, Nevalle staggered to his feet. He was still as he had been before arriving at the warehouse, clad in chainmail and the dark blue tunic emblazoned with a fearsome eye that marked him as a knight of the Nine. His clothing was intact, undamaged, and his sword was sheathed in its scabbard on his back. But that wasn't right, was it? His sword had been in his hand, stuck in the mirror, the mirror that... that... that what? Grasping at the tendrils of memory floating through his mind was as difficult as catching clouds in the sky, and Nevalle quickly abandoned the attempt. He was faintly aware of fear, of the need to fight and to defend his city, but more than that he could not recall. Not yet, not with his mind still buzzing and that strange chittering noise growing ever louder.

Struggling against the strange fog in his mind, the knight staggered forward a few steps, waving his arms to try and clear away the thick green fog. It was a strangely familiar fog, similar to a mist he'd seen somewhere before. But where? Unbidden, the image of a frightening mirror darted through his mind, there and gone in an instant. He struggled to understand the memory, to make some connection through whatever magic had robbed him of his faculties, and failed. If only the shrieks in the distance weren't so distracting, he _knew_  he would understand. If only his mind wasn't buzzing, if only the chittering behind him wasn't growing louder with each passing moment, he could...

Some ancient animal instinct, older than human thought, lifted the hairs on the back of Nevalle's neck. _Run_ , the instinct whispered. _Run._ The need to obey, to sprint blindly through the fog, seized the knight with a vicious intensity. In spite of it all, he slowly turned to try and identify the source of the strange, damnable chittering. Behind him the fog stirred with the approach of some large thing, close to the ground and moving with an eerie fluidity. Clicking, the sound of claws on stone and dirt, joined the growing noises that warned of the approach of something furious and hungry. A leg appeared through the mist, followed a face with far too many eyes and mandibles that chittered and clacked in a pitch designed to terrify.

Nevalle gave into his instincts and ran.

The fog began to clear some as he rushed through the darkness. The earth beneath his feet gave way to bare stone, off of which the sound of the spiders behind him echoed horribly. Nevalle nearly stumbled as unexpected rocks and inclines appeared and disappeared, the odd green world seeming to twist and change around him as he fled. He had no destination, no plan, no hope. He could only run, even as the walls of rock grew higher around him and he began to realize he was trapped in a narrow corridor of rock. When he rounded a corner and came face to face with a near-vertical incline, Nevalle realized with a sinking certainty that this would be his end. Neither god nor man could save him. He was alone, pursued by too many enemies to fight in a world so alien he could barely process it.

But though the man despaired, the same animal instinct that had set him to fleeing pushed him onward. He found himself scrabbling for handholds on the sharp rocks, somehow managing to begin an arduous climb up the slope. His muscles ached and begged him to stop, to let go, but the very last of his strength kept him climbing despite the sound of his pursuers following him with ease. There were gaining on him, growing ever closer, but still the knight kept climbing and climbing. If he could only reach flat ground, or a ledge on which to stand, he could draw his sword and die fighting!

A dim light shone through the darkness ahead of him, radiant and untainted by the green mist. Nevalle made for it, used it as a guide, and when the light resolved itself into the shape of a woman with an outstretched hand he didn't hesitate to reach for her. The spiders were nearly upon him, the sounds they made enough to drive anyone mad with fear, but Nevalle stretched for the strange woman's hand until he could feel the muscles in his shoulder strain and protest. He was so close, _so close_ -

Finally, his fingers brushed the woman's, and he fell into darkness once more.


	3. Prisons and Prisoners

The first thing Nevalle was aware of was pain. His head- no, his entire body ached as if he'd tumbled down a mountain side and hit a dozen sharp rocks along the way. And his _hand_! His hand burned, as if someone had pressed a hot brand to his palm. He could almost feel the shape of the burn, jagged and sharp, the edges tingling as if whatever was burning him was trying to expand across the rest of his hand.

The second thing the knight was aware of was the fact that he was bound. It was pain that had pulled him slowly from unconsciousness, but the realization that his hands were bound in what felt like metal stocks had him fighting for awareness. His eyes felt like lead weights as he forced them open, and it took several long moments for him to focus them well enough to process what he was seeing. He was in the center of a dark room with a stone floor, a thick door just a few feet away from him. The clank of metal on metal as he began to try and force himself into a seated position called his attention to the guards in each corner of the room, dressed in similar sets of armor and staring at him with cold fury in their eyes. Nevalle ignored them for the moment.

His hands were locked in some metal contraption unlike anything he'd seen before. It was like a set of handcuffs, but instead of a chain the thick cuffs around his wrists were connected by a sturdy metal bar. His left hand still burned, the pain sharper than it had been before now that he was conscious. Turning his hand awkwardly in the cuff, Nevalle tried to check whatever wound was causing the pain. As if summoned by his scrutiny, however, a sharper shock of pain still flew up his wrist and arm, accompanied by a bizarre green light radiating suddenly from his hand. The agony pulled a pained cry from him, but the horror that flooded Nevalle had nothing to do with the pain. The guards, as startled by the bright light as Nevalle had been, had their swords drawn, but the knight still ignored them.

The mark on his hand had captured all of his attention.

It was somehow both amorphous and jagged, more light than wound, and spread across most of his left palm. Green light of the same foggy quality he'd seen in the wizard's mirror, rippled across the mark's surface, and tendrils of it extended beyond the main body of the odd injury. The tendrils pulsed softly, and Nevalle swore he could see the mark slowly growing as he stared at it. The knight's eyes were wide and horrified, the green light reflecting strangely off the hazel orbs. He had never seen anything like this, nor heard any wizard or sorcerer describe such a thing. Worse, he was no caster. He couldn't control this... _whatever_ it was. He'd need to contact the Academy, and- And he couldn't do that until he figured out just where he was and why his hands were bound.

Wrenching his gaze away from the mark on his palm, Nevalle drew in a deep breath to focus himself. He was a knight, with a soldier's discipline, he reminded himself. Whatever had happened when the wizard's mirror broke, he would find his way out of this apparent disaster by focusing on one thing at a time. Once he was centered, he studied the nearest guard. The man- little more than a boy, actually- had his sword out and pointed at Nevalle, but the knight could tell he was no warrior. The stranger held his weapon as if he was hiding behind it. "Sheathe-"

Before he could say two words, the door to the room suddenly burst open to reveal two of the most intimidating women Nevalle had ever laid eyes on. One, a hooded redhead with a noblewoman's complexion and an assassin's bearing, moved immediately out of the pool of light spilling from the open door to stand in the shadows. Her eyes bored into Nevalle with enough intensity to nearly send a shiver down his spine. The second woman, dark-haired and scarred, with bone structure Nevalle was certain he could sharpen a knife on, wore finely-crafted armor marked with an insignia Nevalle had never seen before. It looked almost like a bastardized version of the Eye of Neverwinter worn by all the Nine, but he had never seen this woman before. He would have remembered her if he had. She all but radiated strength and fanatic determination, and her high, sharp cheekbones lent her a severe beauty. The armored woman did not stop with her companion, but instead marched directly towards Nevalle as the guardsmen sheathed their weapons. She stalked slowly around behind him, a tactic he knew was designed to unsettle and unnerve. Gritting his teeth somewhat, he kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him and refused to twist in an attempt to keep his eyes on her. He could all but feel her malice.

He expected the woman to complete her circuit and stand in front of him, at which point he could begin to demand answers. Instead, she stopped behind him and leaned down to growl in his ear. "Tell me," she ordered sharply, "why we shouldn't kill you now." Her accent was different from any Nevalle could remember having heard before, though it reminded him faintly of that of Calimshite traders. "The Conclave is destroyed," she continued harshly, finishing her slow circle around Nevalle. "Everyone who attended is dead." Despite the cold fury in her words, she sounded truly distressed by the loss of life. But her distress, it seemed, only heightened her anger. "Except for _you_." Anger that was, apparently, directed towards him.

Nevalle's eyes narrowed. He could hear the blame in her tone. Whatever this Conclave was, and whatever had happened to the folk attending it, this woman was blaming _him_ for it. Anger tightening his jaw, he tried to rise to his feet. He would not remain kneeling while some stranger hurled accusations his way. Before he could stand, however, the distinctive ring of metal on metal broke the tense stillness of the room as the guards drew their swords once more. The glare Nevalle turned on those of the guard he could see was a ferocious one that had cowed dozens of men under his command in the past, but he remained kneeling.

"I don't know what this Conclave is," he growled back at her. "But whoever you are, you have no authority to hold me. I am Sir Nevalle, Captain of the Neverwinter Nine. Any grievance you have against me can be taken up in the high court of Neverwinter." His expression hardened further. "Unless," he added coldly, "you are looking for a war." That possibility, he realized, seemed more and more likely by the moment. She was a Luskan spy, likely, the odd copy of the Eye of Never on her armor some attempt to blend in to her surroundings in the city. _So be it_ , he decided silently. _We bested them once, we will do it again._ "Release me. _Now_." For all his threats, he knew he had little more than false bravado and sheer stubbornness on his side. Those, he hoped, would simply have to be enough.

If looks could kill, the glare his interrogator offered him would not have simply ended Nevalle's life. Instead, it would have replaced him with a smoking crater in the ground. "Do not toy with us!" she snarled. "You were at the Conclave. We _found_ you in the ashes!" Suddenly, she made a grab for his marked hand. Nevalle tried to dodge, but the guards still watching him warily stopped him from moving too far. The woman snatched his hand, fingers crushingly tight around his wrist, and all but yanked his shoulder from its socket as she brandished Nevalle's own marked palm at him. "Explain _this_!"

Expression twisted with rage, Nevalle tore his hand from her grasp. The heavy metal stocks still biding his hands hit his thigh heavily, but he ignored the fresh pain. "I _can't_!" he shot back with fury. The mark was as much a mystery to him as his surroundings, but he was less concerned with it than with his own imprisonment. "Release me!"

Obviously dissatisfied by his answer, the dark-haired woman pressed on with her interrogation. "What do you mean 'you can't'?" she demanded, hostility only matched by her incredulity.

"I don't know what it is!" Nevalle contested. He tried to stand again, if only to meet her arguments and anger face-to-face instead of kneeling on the ground, but a guard slammed him back to the floor before he could rise far. His knees hit the stone with a sickening thud. " _Or_ how it got there!"

Growling, the woman stormed towards him. For a moment it seemed she was simply going to bowl him over, but she grabbed him by his shoulders with surprising strength. Nevalle struggled against her grasp, stubbornly refusing to flinch even when her face was inches from his. "You're _lying!_ " she snarled wildly.

Nevalle was about to snarl right back at her, his patience utterly spent, when the hooded woman in the shadows decided to intervene. A single delicate hand pushed at the first woman's shoulders, guiding her firmly away from Nevalle. The knight was left to watch the pair of them, breathing a little more heavily than before as he recovered from the adrenaline rush of the charged moment.

"We _need_ him, Cassandra," the redhead reminded her ally- Cassandra, apparently- in a musical voice. Apparently willing to defer to the hooded woman, Cassandra relented for the moment. She remained by the door, where the other woman had pushed her, but her eyes never left Nevalle. It was hard to read what lay in her gaze, but there was fury there. Pain, too, Nevalle guessed. And just a little hate.

 _At least they aren't likely to kill me immediately,_ he thought grimly. So long as he was alive and they were invested in keeping him that way, he had a chance to figure out what in the name of all the gods was happening.

When the redhead returned her attention to Nevalle, her demeanor was gentler but no less intense than Cassandra's had been. "Do you remember what happened? How this began?" The question was surprisingly businesslike, as if such interrogations were second nature to her. Even so, her words hid the barest hint of a threat. More and more, Nevalle was beginning to believe his earlier assessment of her bearing as reminiscent of an assassin's or spy's was accurate.

Though he was far from relaxed, Nevalle forced some of the tension from his shoulders and met the woman's gaze steadily. "I was leading a contingent of guardsmen to investigate a disturbance in the Docks district," he informed her, tactfully concealing as many of the situation's details as he could. "There was... an accident, of some sort. Magical. It created some sort of illusion." The knight was choosing his words with care. Were these enemies of Neverwinter, the less information he gave them about any topic the better. Were they allies, or at least indifferent, he needed to give them enough to trust him. "Spiders, and a strange woman. I woke up here." He shook his handcuffs as if to make a point. "I know nothing of this Conclave, but if you release me I can promise the aid of the City of Neverwinter in investigating whatever it was that occurred."

The woman ignored his offer, her expression having changed to one of intrigue at a small part of his tale. "A woman?" she asked curiously, ready to grill him for more information. Before she could ask another question, however, Cassandra intervened.

"Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she ordered gently, stepping between Nevalle and the hooded woman to steer her towards the door. "I will take him to the Rift."

Leliana stared at Cassandra, something that Nevalle couldn't read passing silently between them. The way the two women treated each other, with a respect that went deeper than any granted by mere authority, was strangely familiar. They reminded him of soldiers, he'd realized, or of his fellow members of the Nine. These two had fought side by side more than once, he'd bet money on it. After a moment, Leliana nodded and departed in silence.

Cassandra and Nevalle were left virtually alone then, the four guards still as statues. The warrior woman stared down at the shackled knight, who met her gaze unflinchingly. At first Nevalle was certain she'd simply turn and leave, following her ally. Instead she marched towards him and, much to his surprise, began unlocking his shackles. He snatched his hands away from the metal cuffs the moment he could, rubbing at his chafed wrists and flexing his burning palm with a grimace. She snatched his hands back nearly as quickly, hands strong and sure as she looped a tight rope around his wrists. Nevalle considered struggling for a brief moment, but chose to remain still. He was unarmed, and surrounded by five warriors. Cooperation seemed to be his only chance of survival.

But though he let her tie his hands, he was far from silent. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded, fully expecting her response to be as aggressive as her earlier interrogations had been. Instead, she seemed almost sad as she met his eyes for a brief moment. Her grip on his shoulder was strong, but not cruel, as she hauled him to his feet. He stood taller than her by several inches and, even with her plate armor, he clearly outweighed her. If the woman was at all threatened by the knight's size and strength, however, she hid it well.

"It..." she began uncertainly, steadying him as he stood. "It will be easier to show you." With that she gestured for one of the guards to open the door, and began to walk into the bright sunlight. Left with no other choice, Nevalle straightened his back, held his head high, and followed her.


	4. A Stranger in a Strange Land

Nothing could have prepared Nevalle for what he saw when he left the room where he'd been imprisoned. The sunlight was bright despite the apparent lateness of the day, and it hurt his eyes after the darkness of the room. He squinted, raising a hand to block the sun.

Only then did he realize he could see the sun to his right, and that the light he was trying to block was tinted a sickly green.

The knight slowly lowered his hand peering at the source of the green light. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brilliance, but slowly an intensely unsettling sight came into focus. The... _thing_ looked like a jagged hole in the sky, as if a god had torn the very fabric of the universe. A disturbingly familiar green light shone from the tear, and within its edges he could just make out the same roiling green fog he remembered from his hallucinations. The light was the same as that he'd seen radiating from cracks in the mad wizard's mirror, he realized with a sense of dread. Was this abomination in the sky somehow a product of that? The hole in the sky, in reality itself, captured all of Nevalle's attention. He all but forgot Cassandra was still standing near him, until she spoke.

"We call it the Breach," she said grimly, staring up at the thing with a hard expression. Her hand rested on her sword, as if she would have liked to do battle with the sky itself to mend the tear. "It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour." The knight forced his attention to her as she turned to face him. "It's not the only such rift," she continued. "Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."

"Tyr's ass," Nevalle swore softly, eyes drifting to the hole once more. It pulled at his vision, even as his mind tried to ignore the warped edges and sheer impossibility of it. "The city... Is Neverwinter threatened? Has someone summoned the Academy to try and close it?" Already his mind was racing down a dozen different paths. The army would need to be mustered, and the knights of the city summoned. The Watch could coordinate an evacuation of the citizens. Or, if Neverwinter was safe, they could begin constructing shelters for refugees from elsewhere. "What have you heard of other cities? Waterdeep? Luskan?"

"Water deep? Luskan?" The look Cassandra shot him was one of pure contempt. It was the same expression usually reserved for smelly things scraped from the bottoms of boots. "I do not know what game you are playing," she hissed, "But abandon it now. All of Thedas is threatened by this Breach. The Fade itself is pouring through into our world!"

Nevalle's eyes narrowed. "Thedas?" he echoed. "There is no such city. But if that Breach leads to the Fade, or the Abyss, or whatever the hells you want to call it, my first duty is to Neverwinter. How far are we from the city?" Despite his protestations, a subtle fear was beginning to worm its way through the knight. Something was fundamentally wrong here, and it was something he was beginning to suspect went beyond even the hole in the sky. "Where am I?"

Cassandra looked very much like she would have deeply enjoyed punching Nevalle. "You are either stupid," she growled, every syllable precise and clipped, "or mad. There is no Neverwinter, and my patience is swiftly wearing thin. End your games. Or I will end them for you." Her eyes were hard as steel, and her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword in a silent but clear threat.

It was not that threat, however, that caused the blood to drain from Nevalle's features, leaving him pale and sickly-looking. Nor was it the way his hand still burned as if he had dipped it in acid. It was four words, four simple words the forced a stark and horrifying reality to slam into place. _There is no Neverwinter_. For a moment, the faint and desperate hope that he was simply far from his home, far enough that this woman had not heard of Neverwinter, fluttered in Nevalle's breast.  But she had not heard of Waterdeep. Folk as far as Kara Tur knew of Waterdeep! Many times he had heard it called the most important city in the North, if not in all of Faerun. Yet this woman echoed the name as if she had never heard of the place.

Wherever Nevalle was, he was no longer on his home plane.

"Where am I?" he breathed, the question no longer a demand.

Surprise flickered in Cassandra's gaze, momentarily disrupting her hostility. Perhaps it was the sheer depth of the knight's obvious shock that softened her, or some other sign that the stranger was out of his depth. Regardless of the cause, however, her words were less harsh when she spoke again. "You are not far from the sight of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, near the town of Haven, in the mountains of Ferelden." Confusion blended with suspicion in her tone. "You should know this."

It was not unreasonable for him to not know the name of a temple or a town, but Nevalle had spent hours pouring over maps of Faerun. Studying trade routes, planning for potential battles, even simply trying to find the location of a place he'd read about in a report! But Ferelden, be it a mountain range or a nation, was not a name known to him. Feeling his heart sink even as it began to race, Nevalle shook his head weakly. "No," he whispered. "I think..." His eyes strayed towards the Breach. It was a stupid idea. A crazy one. It was _impossible._ Yet the thing was obviously a portal of some sort, connected to the Aby- no. She'd called it the Fade. Even so, it was a portal to another place. he'd heard a thousand legends of portals, tearing men and women from one place and dropping them in another. It was impossible, but somehow... "I think that thing brought me here," he said faintly. "From... somewhere else."

The woman's confusion grew more plain. "You are not a demon," she stated, suspicion still lacing her words. "I do not-" Before she could finish speaking, a loud rumbling _crack_ echoed from the Breach. Cassandra's head whipped around, and Nevalle's eyes widened in shock. The Breach seemed to be swelling, the edges shifting and reshaping themselves in patterns that hurt the eyes, until suddenly the thing simply expanded with a thunderous noise. The moment it grew, pain unlike anything Nevalle had ever experienced shot though every nerve ending of his marked hand. The intensity of it forced him to his knees with a sharp cry as green light like that of the Breach itself lit the veins under his skin. The edges of his mark, already burning, tore and ate at his skin for what felt like an unending age. Fortunately it was over in moments, the blinding pain fading to the same burn it had been before. The mark had grown. When at last Nevalle managed to slow his breathing and blink away the tears the mark's agony had pulled to his eyes, he found that Cassandra was kneeling in the snow next to him. She was silent for a long moment, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"Each time the Breach expands," she finally began, speaking with a strange intensity. "Your mark spreads. "And it _is_ killing you." She didn't give Nevalle a chance to react to the news, though it sent a cold spike of true fear through him. "It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time." There was another brief pause as she studied him, but when Nevalle attempted to speak she held up a hand to stop him. "I do not know if you are mad, or if you are telling the truth. I do not want to believe you, but two days ago I would not have believed a hole in the sky. Whoever, or whatever you are, and wherever you believe you are from, you may be the only one who can affect the Breach." Though her words were quiet, they carried a core of steel. The message in them was clear: regardless of whether or not she believed Nevalle, he _was_ going to help her deal with the hole in the sky. Whether or not he did so willingly was up to him.

Still cradling his hand to his chest, Nevalle stared at Cassandra for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. He still had no idea who this woman was, or whether or not she or anyone in this world had the power to return him home. Hells, he wasn't even certain of the name of the world he had found himself in. There was no reason to trust her.

But he had no choice.

Besides, the thing in the sky was _wrong_. Anyone looking at it could see that, could hear the faint screaming carried on the wind and see the roiling fog and eerie green light. Cassandra had said demons spilled from the thing, meaning that there had already been deaths. There was always death and destruction when demons were involved. Even if Cassandra could not help him, if no one could- _No_ , he corrected himself. _Someone_ would help him. Somehow he would find his way home. Failure was not an option. But even if Cassandra was not the key to returning to Faerun, he could not in good conscious deny her aid. If there was something he could do the fix the sky, he would do it. "I will help you," he promised. "But once it's done, I need your help. I _must_ return to my home. Until then..." He nodded again, more firmly. "I will do whatever I can."

For a long moment, Cassandra merely stared at him. Her expression was unreadable, but something very much like grudging respect flashed faintly in her eyes. apparently satisfied, for the moment, by whatever she saw in Nevalle, she nodded once and abruptly hauled him to his feet. Though she didn't shove him, she kept a firm grip on his shoulder as she began to lead him down the path. They passed through what seemed to be a village-turned-war camp. Civilians and folk dressed in the same uniform as the guards who had been watching Nevalle mingled freely in the cold. To a one, their expressions were grim, and the glances they shot towards the Breach were fearful and worried. There was a sense of hopelessness in the camp, but as Cassandra and Nevalle passed the air became charged with hostility. A dozen hard stares landed on Nevalle, and a subtle rumbling picked up as people whispered among themselves with their eyes still locked on him. The knight could feel them judging him. Condemning him.

Apparently noticing the same changes in the villagers and soldiers, Cassandra picked up her pace just a little. Nevalle almost stumbled, but quickly adjusted before she could bowl him over. "They have decided your guilt," she explained in a low tone. "They _need_ it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave-"

"The Chantry?" Nevalle interrupted. His question earned him a swift glare from Cassandra, though her original hostility seemed much diminished. _Maybe she's starting to believe me_ , he reasoned darkly, less than hopeful that that might be the case. "A church, I presume?"

"...yes." Cassandra's confirmation was not swift, and it was a long moment before she hid her faint surprise once more. "You have not-? Nevermind." It was almost possible to see the workings of the woman's mind as she dismissed the question, setting it aside to be examined after more pressing matters were resolved. Gods knew Nevalle had done the same himself a thousand times before.

"The Conclave was Justinia's. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars," she explained. It took all of Nevalle's willpower to hold himself back from asking what the conflict between those two groups might have been. Mages, she'd said- wizards, probably. Or sorcerers. But templars? He'd heard the title used to describe elite paladins before, but Cassandra spoke of templars as if they were something more than that. Whatever they were, however, he could wait to ask for more details. The important information was becoming clear to him now. There was some sort of conflict, perhaps a war, between two groups. The leader of this church, this Chantry, had called a meeting for peace talks. An explosion of some sort, the one that had caused the Breach, had destroyed the meeting place and killed those in attendance.

And somehow Nevalle had appeared in the middle of it all.

"She brought their leaders together," Cassandra continued, guiding him out of the village and down a snowy path until they reached a thick set of wooden doors. "Now they are dead." A scout pushed open the doors for the pair, revealing a sturdy stone bridge built up with wooden spikes and other fortifications and manned by soldier's in a uniform Nevalle still could not identify. Cassandra's hand fell away from his back as they passed through the doors, the intense woman apparently trusting Nevalle to walk under his own power. Or, maybe more likely, trusting the surrounding soldiers to recapture him if he tried to run.

"We lash out like the sky," she mused grimly, a note of pain entering her voice as she mourned the conflict brought on by the loss of the woman named Justinia. She had been important to Cassandra, Nevalle surmised. "But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did, until the breach is sealed." She overtook the knight as she spoke, forcing him to a halt as she crossed in front of him. Suddenly, she drew a knife. Nevalle stiffened, but held himself still as she turned to face him.

"I do not understand you," she said simply. "Or what you mean when you say the Breach brought you here. But we need you." Her eyes bored into his, as if seeking some truth. "I can promise you a trial. Nothing more." With that, she seized his hands and sliced through the rough rope around his wrists.

Nevalle offered neither resistance nor argument. A trial meant he had time. They would not kill him, and he would have a chance to speak his peace. So long as he survived whatever it was she needed him to do to close the hole in the sky, he would have his chance to find a way home. He rubbed at his wrists, wincing at the rough burns left by the rope, and offered Cassandra a single nod. "That'll be enough." _It has to be_ , he added silently. "Lead the way."


	5. Wounds in the Sky

The scene Nevalle was met with as he and Cassandra passed through a second set of heavy wooden doors was grim. A steep, winding path rose before them, broken here and they by barricades of sharpened logs manned by soldiers who watched the Breach with frightened eyes. Here and there patches of broken earth smoldered and burned, melting away the snow around them. Every few moments green bolts cracked through the air, accompanied by the scent of ozone and a throb of pain in Nevalle's hand, and slammed to the ground in a new explosion of fire. The air itself seemed heavy with anticipation and tension as Nevalle and Cassandra climbed the path. The Breach expanded again in it's uncomfortable rippling way when they were about halfway up the path. This time the pain was enough to drive Nevalle to his knees, and he felt it shoot halfway up his arm. It was like nothing he'd felt before, even at the hands of the Luskans. The green light that shone through his skin shot through his veins like molten metal, burning and eating away at his skin and being in a way that left him feeling violated and befouled. If he had doubted Cassandra before, when she had told him the mark was killing him, he was beginning to believe her now. There was something fundamentally wrong about it, and every instinct he had screamed that it simply shouldn't exist. But the thing was real, and pulsing in his palm in time with the Breach. Shaking off Cassandra's attempt to help him stand, Nevalle gritted his teeth and stumbled to his feet. Closing the Breach seemed to be his only hope of getting rid of the mark.

He would close the damn thing if it was the last thing he did.

Fortunately the pain soon receded, and the pair was able to continue along the path. Nevalle was beginning to think that he would have some small sort of luck in this bizarre place as they reached a stone bridge manned by soldiers. Though green bolts of light still fell from the sky with alarming frequency, he had not seen a demon, or yet heard the sounds of battle. Though it wasn't likely they'd make it to the Breach without fighting, not if that was the source of the demons Cassandra had mentioned, perhaps they might reach the forward camp without incident.

Almost as soon as they'd fluttered to life, those hopes were dashed. The bridge all but exploded beneath his feet in a blinding shock of green light, sending Nevalle and Cassandra tumbling to land hard atop a frozen pond. The knight's head bounced off a piece of falling debris, and he landed on the ice with a thud that rattled his bones and left him dazed. For a moment he could only stare up at the space the bridge had once occupied, vision dancing with white sparks. After his sight cleared he rolled onto one side, grimacing as he realized the right half of his body would likely become one giant bruise after that fall, and tried to look for Cassandra. He spotted her quickly, and just as quickly the sight of the things she was facing pulled him from his residual daze. They were enormous wraiths, cloaked in tattered rags and brandishing talons like daggers. A dull, eerie whisper emanated from the blackness where their faces should have been, echoing into a hideous chittering cry as Cassandra attacked them. His initial evaluation of her as a warrior woman had been entirely accurate- she moved with strength, precision, and the sort of violent grace that came from thousands of hours in front of a  practice dummy and thousands more in true battle. Even so, it was clear the creatures had taken her by surprise. Despite the ferocity of her attacks, she was quickly forced into a defensive stance. She would never be able to best them alone, not without injury.

Swearing, Nevalle cast about wildly for some weapon he could bring to bear to help her. Apparently Tyr heard his oath-filled prayers, for leaning against a fallen stone was a two-handed blade not unlike Nevalle's own trusted sword. He made a desperate lunge for it and scrambled to his feet. Bringing the weapon to bear, the knight realized it was of a lesser make than his own sword. It was duller, and poorly-balanced. But it would have to do. Bellowing a wordless cry meant to draw at least one of the demonic things away from Cassandra, he charged into battle.

It was not a difficult fight. Though the stature of the beasts made them intimidating, and the unfamiliar weapon left Nevalle somewhat off balance, quick maneuvers proved to be enough to keep the enemy's talons at bay and his sword sliced through their rags with ease. Soon green-black blood spattered the ice and stained Nevalle's sword, and one of the creatures lay dead at his feet. He glanced up just in time to watch Cassandra dispatch the second one with a brutally efficient blow. "What in the hells were those things?" he called out, still breathing heavily from the fight.

Cassandra spun in place, and a faint spark of concern flew through Nevalle at the way her expression turned stormy when she spotted the blade in his hand. She strode towards him, brandishing her longsword as if he was as much of a threat as the dead wraith-things. "Drop your weapon!" she barked. " _Now!_ "

Fighting back the urge to simply shout wordlessly at the sky and condemn whatever gods decided to put him in this situation for their own amusement, Nevalle backpedaled a few paces and lowered his sword. "I _need_ this sword," he argued, blood still running hot from the battle. "You said there's demons. I can fight. We're more likely to get to the Breach alive if I've got a blade." Realizing he was behaving with nearly as much stubborn aggression as she was, he took a deep breath and added more calmly, "I swear, I am not a threat to you."

For a moment, the air between the two warriors all but sizzled with tension Cassandra's pale eyes burned into Nevalle's hazel ones, and the knight tightened his hold on the weapon he had no intention of giving up. He'd sworn to help her, but if she attacked him... Fortunately, it did not come to that. Exhaling sharply, Cassandra lowered her weapon and Nevalle let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"You're right," she concluded, a note of regret in her words. "I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless." She studied Nevalle appraisingly for a moment, then turned and began to walk away. After a few steps, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at the knight. "I should remember you did not attempt to run." It was not an apology, but it seemed to be close to one. Nevalle met it with a nod, but said nothing more.

They lingered by the fallen bridge for a few moments. While Cassandra searched for supplies, Nevalle rummaged about the debris until he found a harness he could use to sheathe his sword. It was designed for someone shorter than he, but he was able to make it fit well enough to make do. Upon finishing her search, Cassandra passed him a small pouch of clinking glassware. The potions inside, for potions they proved to be when Nevalle opened the bag to study them smelled faintly of something not dissimilar to mint. Healing potions, Cassandra called them. That, at least, was something Nevalle was familiar with. They looked different than the healing potions he was accustomed too, but he would trust Cassandra was telling the truth about them. She had no reason to want him dead while he was still useful, and he had no choice but to trust her. Even in spite of the fact that their alliance was one of mutual need, however, there was less tension in the air between them as they pressed on towards the camp, and it dissipated further with each demon they fought. They were not friends, far from it, but they were allies in a time of need. That was enough to create some semblance of trust, for now.

The creatures they fought were unlike any sort of demon Nevalle had ever seen. When he heard the term demon he imagined mephits and imps, or balors and succubi with leathery wings. These things, however, seemed more like nightmares given form. The dark creatures in tattered robes Cassandra called shades, and the green ghost-like apparitions that shot wispy bolts of green light were wraiths. Neither resembled the sort of creature Nevalle would have applied those names to, but names didn't matter when the beasts were hells-bent on destruction and death. Fortunately, even these nightmares could die. Between his practiced strength and Cassandra's cold, controlled fury, they dispatched the things with relative ease almost as soon as they came upon them.

Despite the cold air, Nevalle's was sweating from exertion by the time they fought their way to a small ruin atop a hillside. Even so, in spite of the stress and confusion of the entire situation, he felt _good_. _Alive_. It had been too long since he'd fought a proper battle, too long that he'd spent behind a desk reading reports of skirmishes instead of fighting them himself. Now his blood was pumping, and though the sword in his hands wasn't his own it was beginning to feel more comfortable, more natural. Despite his station in Neverwinter, Nevalle was and always had been a soldier. A soldier's place was on the battlefield, and fighting these demons and nightmare made the knight feel like he was in control of his life again for the first time since the damn mirror had exploded.

Though from a distance it seemed the crumbling ruins would offer shelter and a moment to breathe, the sounds of battle echoed off the stones as Nevalle and Cassandra approached. For the first time since the collapse of the bridge, Nevalle could make out what he assumed to be soldier's in Cassandra's odd army fighting  a small contingent of shades and wraiths. He swore under his breath, seeing that their allies were hard-pressed, and began to sprint towards the battle. What he saw when he reached the top of a stone wall, however, forced him to a standstill. Hanging in the air with the same aura of sheer _wrongness_ as the Breach itself, was a... something. He didn't have the words to describe it properly. It was like a distortion in the fabric of the world. No, more than that- it was a growth, something pressing through from another plane in a grotesque fashion. Green spikes writhed and shifted in the air, parting here and there to reveal patches of foggy green light that only just obscured dark figures moving in the distance. Even as Nevalle watched those patches of light were slowly growing larger, and the figures were moving and shrieking with dark excitement. Soon they would break through, bolstering the enemy's ranks.

Cassandra, apparently unfazed by the sight of the thing in the sky, barreled past Nevalle with a loud, taunting battlecry. Her passage nearly knocked him from the wall, but pulled him from his momentary stupor. The thing in the sky, and the demons waiting the other side of it, could wait. There were enemies on the ground before them who needed to be dealt with first. "One thing at a time," he growled to himself, drawing his sword once more. "One thing at a time." With that, he leapt off the wall and joined the fight.

It was brutal, but brief. The demons had the other fighters, an elven wizard and a dwarf with a crossbow, firmly on the defensive when Cassandra and Nevalle joined the fray. Their arrival, however, was more than enough to turn the tide of the battle. The two fighters quickly captured the attention of the demons, drawing their ire away from the archer and wizard and leaving them free to pick off the enemy from a distance while Nevalle and Cassandra fought back-to-back. Finally the demons' numbers were halved, then halved again, and in the end a brutal-looking crossbow bolt erupted from the ragged robes of the final shade. It withered with an unsettling shriek, writhing on the ground for a moment before dissipating into ashy green smoke. Only a few scraps of dark cloth were left behind.

Scanning the area rapidly, Nevalle lowered his sword and took stock of his allies. Cassandra seemed unharmed, and looked to be surveying the aftermath of the fight in the same way Nevalle was. The dwarf was striding towards the two fighters, slinging the most complex crossbow Nevalle had ever seen over one shoulder. He was a bizarre-looking dwarf. He was practically a dandy by dwarven standards, beardless and dressed in a fine shirt cut low to show off a vaguely impressive amount of chest hair. But he was far from something to laugh at. Though he had an air of faint mischief around him, even in battle, the dwarf's eyes were hard and serious. He'd seen war, and things both dark and strange, and it showed.

The wizard, meanwhile- or was it mage? Cassandra had made mention of mages- was distinctly unsettling. He approached Nevalle with a determined gait that could only be described as predatory. Despite his stride, however, he seemed surprisingly cool and collected. His slanted eyes were filled with stark determination that almost matched Cassandra's own. "Quickly," he demanded harshly, reaching for Nevalle. "Before more come through!" The knight's first instinct was to back away from the elf's sudden approach, but the mage moved too quickly. He snatched the knight's wrist, not cruelly, then turned and lifted his hand so his marked palm faced the hole in the sky.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, abruptly, blinding light burst from Nevalle's hand and the world seemed to fade away between one heartbeat and the next. The distant sounds of battle, the tight grip of Solas' long fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, and even the bitter cold all seemed to fade away. Nevalle was left feeling as if he was watching the world, watching it without being part of it. A rushing sound filled his ears, backed by the dim shrieking he'd come to associate with the holes in the sky. The light shining from his hand grew more and more intense as the shrieking began to fade, until that light was all there was in Nevalle's universe.

And then it and the hole in the sky were gone.

Nevalle crashed back into reality with a suddenness that left him frozen in place, staring at the place in the sky where the glowing green tear had been. Only when he realized his mouth was hanging open did he snatch his hand away from the odd elf with a startled oath. "What did you do?" he demanded, backing away a few paces. The knight's mind was reeling as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The elf had done... _something_ , and now the rift was gone. But how had he done it? Why hadn't he done it sooner? Why wasn't Cassandra going after him instead of Nevalle, if he knew how to get rid of the damn things? He stared at the elf with wide eyes, trying to look more commanding than he felt.

The elf, however, saw right through the commanding facade to Nevalle's true shock and confusion. " _I_ did nothing," he explained with a dry chuckle. The predatory air that had hung about him during the battle was gone. "The credit is yours." He spoke simply, as if that explained all there was to explain, but there was a certain air of dry amusement about him. His was the faintly amused and smug smile of a man who has just told a joke he knows no one else in the room is smart enough to understand.

Nevalle just stared at him uncomprehendingly. "But... I didn't do anything. You just..." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the place the rift had been."Made it go away," he finished lamely.

The elf's air of amusement intensified. "I did nothing," he reiterated, nodding slightly to Nevalle's hand."Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand." He paused, apparently expecting Nevalle to connect the pieces of the puzzle. When the knight just continued staring, he continued. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake." His strange little smile turned a touch more satisfied. "And it seems I was correct."

As the elf spoke, Nevalle's gaze dropped to the mark on his hand. It pulsed and buzzed faintly, leaving his hand feeling as if tiny currents of electricity were running across it. Some of the pain had faded with the closing of the rift. Like the hole in the sky, it felt nearly dangerous to look at the mark for too long. There was something deeply unsettling about it, a pervasive sense of wrongness that made Nevalle's eyes ache. Nonetheless, the knight was feeling ever so slightly calmer than he had been before meeting this strange little elf. A million questions still tumbled through the knight's racing mind, but now he was in the presence of someone who seemed like he could answer them. He'd even been given one answer already. The mark on his hand and the holes in the sky, as well as whatever magic had both created them and brought him to this world, were all connected. Nevalle had suspected as much, but he had no way to be sure. He was certainly no expert on magic. Now though? Now at least one tiny thread of the thick knot of uncertainty and fearful confusion tied tight inside him had been untangled.

Cassandra unintentionally covered for Nevalle during his brief, contemplative silence. She strode across the courtyard to join the knight and the elf, eyes shining with a carefully-tempered hope. "Meaning it could also close the Breach itself?" she asked cautiously.

The elf nodded. "Possibly." He turned his gaze on Nevalle once more. Gone was his earlier intensity. In its place was more odd amusement. The elf seemed almost entertained by the happenings around him, as if he was merely in the audience of some greatly entertaining play. "It seems," he continued, speaking directly to the still-shaken knight, "you hold the key to our salvation."


	6. Allies and Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to add this chapter, but thanks to those who have read and left kudos or comments. I'm writing this as my schedule and inspiration permit, and obviously it isn't a quick process. Thanks for being patient!

Nevalle wanted to scream. He didn't _want_ to be some sort of savior. He _couldn't_ be, not in this strange world so far from his home. He didn't belong here. He had to return to Neverwinter, to the Nine. His home was waiting for him, his duties going unfilled every moment he was in this bizarre land. Every moment he remained here, he was failing his city and his lord.

But he knew he couldn't leave. If he really was able to help these people, was the only one able to help them, he had to. Not even because they would make him.

He couldn't, in good conscious, abandon them. Not if they were telling the truth.

There was one silver lining to this newest development, as slim as it was. The... whatever it was on his hand could apparently do something for holes in the sky like the one they'd just closed. Nevalle hadn't the faintest idea if it would work on the massive tear above them, but at least now he knew there was something he could do. He had to close the Breach before he could return home, and now he had some proof that he could succeed.

Still, it wasn't very comforting.

Before Nevalle could find a way to organize his jumbled thoughts into words, the finely-dressed dwarf came stomping over, fidgeting with a glove. "Good to know," he drawled. "Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." There was a strange dual nature to the dwarf's dry comment. On the surface there was a touch of wit to it, as if it were meant to lighten the mood. Below that, however, hid a deeply grim tone. "Varric Tethras," he continued in a more business-like manner, holding out a hand to Nevalle. "Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong." The last was said with a wink in Cassandra's direction. Cassandra seemed thoroughly unimpressed.

Still at a loss for words, Nevalle only just managed a short nod of greeting before turning a beseeching gaze Cassandra's way. The dwarf was worryingly at ease, and the elven wizard was downright off-putting for a reason Nevalle couldn't quite place his finger on. She seemed to be the only person who both knew what she was doing and wasn't actively trying to drive him mad.

Before Nevalle could put his thoughts in order well enough to ask any of the questions still racing uncomfortably fast through his mind, he became aware of Cassandra and the dwarf, Varric, bickering with each other. The ease with which they began snapping at each other's throats suggested that such bickering was far from unusual. Strained, Nevalle suspected, likely did not even begin to describe their relationship. By this point, he was beginning to wonder whether or not the intense warrior woman was even capable of something so non-hostile as friendship.

"Have you _been_ in the valley lately, Seeker?" Varric asked. If the dwarf was at all intimidated by Cassandra's height or stern appearance, he didn't show it. In fact, he spoke with the air of someone who holds a winning hand of cards in a game of poker and _knows_ it. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me." Varric looked positively smug as he issued the last declaration. He spoke confidently, as if he was someone accustomed to being listened to, though he hardly seemed the type to be some sort of leader. A bard, perhaps? From his appearance to his attitude to his easy confidence, the dwarf certainly reminded Nevalle of the storytellers and singers he knew.

The mention of soldiers was oddly reassuring. Nevalle understood soldiers and battlefields, and the presence of soldiers meant it wasn't simply himself and this bizarre, possibly insane trio standing alone against the demons spilling from the holes in the sky. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would be able to make sense of this situation. Despite the knight's relief, however, Cassandra was apparently far from comforted by the dwarf's insistence on joining their party. Somehow, it managed to convey disgust, exhaustion, annoyance, and a strong desire to string Varric up by his balls. Really, it was a rather impressive disgusted noise.

Apparently deciding that now was the time to join in the introductions, the bald elf strode forward and captured Nevalle's attention. He still carried himself with that same odd air of amusement, and his eyes were bright with an intimidating intelligence. Despite his strangeness, however, he seemed polite. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," he said, an out-of-place smile playing on his lips. "I am pleased to see you still live." Nevalle blinked and opened his mouth to recite some automatic polite greeting, but Varric interrupted him. Evidently the dwarf didn't like to be left out of conversations for long.

"He means 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'" Nevalle was slowly beginning to reach the conclusions that Varric's default state was sarcastic with a hint of smug. Judgments of his companions' characters, however, were hardly at the forefront of his mind. Instead, the knight was focused on the fact that the mark on his hand was apparently deadly. The look of shock on his features made his alarm painfully obvious, and instinct had him holding his hand a little further away from his body as if doing so might stop the aching mark from hurting him. The only thing that stopped the knight from fully returning to a state of near-panic was the fact that this Solas was apparently some sort of expert on whatever it was that had caused all this. _Maybe_ , Nevalle thought hopefully, _he can even help me get home._

"You know something about this... thing?" he ventured warily.

It was Cassandra, not Solas, who answered him first. "Solas is an apostate," she pointed out frankly, as if that odd statement explained everything. "And well-versed in such matters." Nevalle wasn't certain why she seemed to think apostasy had anything to do with the magic that had affected him. Granted, he wasn't certain what apostasy meant. He had the vague notion, however, that it was religious. Perhaps it was another term for Faithlessness? If so, the faint disgust that Cassandra displayed was likely justified. In Nevalle's experience, the Faithless were either full of themselves or simply stupid.

Solas' answer did little to make things more clear. "Technically all mages are apostates now, Cassandra." So clearly it was more than a matter of being Faithless. Nevalle knew many wizards- why did these people insist on calling them mages?- whom were as religious as any other man or woman. Then again... Nevalle's heart sank, and an acidic sickness returned to gnaw at his gut. He was barely listening as Solas mentioned something about travels and Circle mages.

The truth was in front of him, already acknowledged but not yet fully accepted. It burned, bright and hot and all-consuming, and Nevalle feared it. Yet no amount of fear or reluctance or willful ignorance could banish it. The truth, no matter how painful it was, was that Nevalle was no longer in any world he knew or understood. Neverwinter, if it still stood unharmed by the blast that had sent him to this place, was so far from where he now found himself that the distance could not be measured in miles. Tamping down the despair that filled and threatened to overwhelm him took some doing, and Nevalle was grateful that he did not have to offer much in the way of conversation as Solas turned to Cassandra.

"You should know," the elf declared, projecting a sense of level-headedness. "The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen." The way Solas spoke was oddly rhythmic, and Nevalle suspected that in most other circumstances he would have found the wiz- _mage's_ voice soothing in spite of the general oddness about him. If Varric seemed to have the pomp and wit of a storyteller, Solas had the voice of one. "Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power." It seemed he might say more, but Cassandra had no patience for it.

"Understood," she said simply, her curtness cut by the tired look about her eyes. It was a look of exhaustion Nevalle recognized well, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for Cassandra. He'd been in that same state many times before, hiding a bone-deep weariness behind a strong bearing and a faked air of purpose. It was oddly comforting to guess that Cassandra was likely doing the same now. For all that Nevalle's own position was uncertain, confusing, and frightening, it was apparent that he was far from the only one whose life was in a state of disarray. _One step at a time,_ he thought grimly. _That's the only way to get through this. One step at a time._ The mantra had saved him from near-insanity many times in the past as he dealt with idiotic nobles and incompetent guards, and now it helped him to push away his fear and insecurity. _One step at a time._ He could get his questions answered eventually, but for now there was work to be done. _One step at a time._ A new sense of determination stole over Nevalle and brought with it renewed focus.

"We must get to the forward camp quickly." With that, Cassandra strode away and vaulted easily over a low broken wall. Nevalle was only a step or two behind her.

_One step at a time._

As they traveled along a road littered with signs of war, Cassandra leading the way with a swift, determined stride, they came across smaller groups of demons. Some were the hulking, cloaked shades Nevalle and Cassandra had first faced, while others were the creepy, wisp-like wraith-things that had spilled from the hole in the sky where they first met Solas and Varric. Nevalle wasn't sure which of the two his disliked more. The cloaked monstrosities reeked of death, but the knight swore he could make out half-rotted faces in the swirling mists that surrounded the wraiths. Both were horrific. Fortunately, both fell with relative ease before the small party of warriors. Solas' magic was more effective than that which Nevalle had seen any wizard wield. He was starting to guess that mages, if that was what magic users were in this world, were more akin to sorcerers than wizards. The elf cast spell after spell with ease, and was apparently not limited in the number of times he could cast a certain spell. That alone made him more useful than most wizards, as far as Nevalle was concerned.

Varric, meanwhile was downright deadly with his crossbow. He seemed to disappear at will, and always flickered back into site with an accurate shot already lined up. His crossbow must have been all but effortless to reload, as he fired again and again without pause. Only the fact that he seemed to be carrying on a conversation with the crossbow, encouraging and complimenting it, had Nevalle concerned about the dwarf's reliability.

By the time they fought their way across a frozen river and up a steep, snow-covered slope, the quartet had fallen into a comfortable pattern. Nevalle had to hand it to his companions. They each knew how to work as a unit. The knight knew that was not a small thing. He'd spent literally _years_ trying to train guardsmen and soldiers to do the same, and had seen firsthand that it was a talent only the most skilled warriors picked up. Watching a companion's back and fighting in such a way as to complement their abilities was easy enough in theory. The battlefield was usually where it all fell apart, but the odd band that Nevalle now found himself part of had no such problems. _Thank Tyr for small blessings_ , he thought as they trudged up the hill.

Small blessings were apparently all Nevalle could hope to receive. Just as they crested the hill, a sharp pain in his hand pulled a cry from the knight. The mark was flaring up again, radiating a swirling green light that made Nevalle's eyes water and his skin crawl. Ahead of them the road twisted sharply to the right, and from just around the bend there was a loud crackling sound. It wasn't loud, but the sound of it was like an icy finger dragged down Nevalle's spine. It was _wrong_ , as wrong as the Breach, and the knight knew without needing to round the bend that he was hearing another rift tear open the air. Seconds later, the screech of a shade confirmed his suspicion.

Pushing away his exhaustion, Nevalle drew his sword and charged around the corner with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric at his heels.

This battle was every bit as brutal as the last had been, but this time Nevalle wasn't as surprised when Solas snatched his wrist during a lull in the fighting and pointed the mark at the shuddering rift in the air. The first attempt to close the thing lasted only a moment before a shade came rushing at them, but on the second attempt Nevalle didn't need Solas' help. He could feel an unsettling magic rushing through him, as if he was merely a conduit for something indescribably old and frighteningly powerful. The mark shaped that magic, changed it, and connected it to the rift in the sky. Once again, rushing and shrieking filled Nevalle's ears until the light that blinded him to everything except the mark and the rift pushed away those noises. Then there was a sharp _crack_ and a blinding flash of green. Pain reverberated along Nevalle's arm from his wrist to his elbow, as if he'd just struck a ball too hard with a bat, then faded to a buzzing numbness that was in turn gradually replaced by the itch and discomfort of the mark on his palm. By the time he finally managed to focus his eyes on his surroundings, the second rift was gone. Fierce satisfaction flooded Nevalle, and filled him with the wild sort of elation that came from victories that should have been impossible. He still had no idea what the magic in his hand was or where the rifts in the sky came from, but he could fight them. As long as he could fight them, he stood a chance against this insanity. He could close the Breach. He could return home.

As guards, apparently under Cassandra's command, opened the gates that stood behind where the rift had been, Nevalle couldn't help but allow himself a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes, and it wasn't a happy expression. It was the look of a chess master who'd just seen a winning move, or a commander who'd witnessed his enemy's fatal mistake. It was a hard, determined, and victorious expression. He could beat this. _One step at a time._


	7. Battlefield Promises

Nevalle did not like Councilor Roderic. In fact, the slimy, petulant, arrogant man was precisely the sort of _ass_ that Nevalle _hated_ to deal with. The Neverwinter nobility was full of men and women just like the councilor, people who loved to puff themselves up with a sense of false importance and demand that the world around them bow to their whims. They were big fish used to living in small ponds, and had no idea how the world outside their manor walls functioned. And _unlike_ Roderic, members of the nobility didn't want Nevalle imprisoned or killed. Usually.

In any other situation, he might have been more patient with the councilor. The man was obviously distraught, his world turned upside down and torn to shreds. His small pond had become quite a bit bigger than he was used to it being, and he wasn't handling it well. As it was, however, the knight was utterly unsympathetic. At least _Roderic_ hadn't been tossed into a world that bore little resemblance to anything he'd ever known. Nevalle spent the entirety of the conversation with his fingers curled into aching, white-knuckled fists. He was aching to punch the man but, no matter how much he disliked it or how much Cassandra claimed to need him, the fact remained that Nevalle was a prisoner. So he remained silent and watch Roderic with burning eyes. It seemed the councilor saw something disturbing in the unblinking knight's gaze. Perhaps it was the half-crazed determination that had been slowly building in Nevalle since the closing of the first rift, or the unflinchingly stubborn courage that had led the bull-headed man to the top of the Neverwinter Nine. Whatever it was, it made the Councilor avoid meeting Nevalle's eyes.

Stress, anxiety, and fear transformed Roderic into a symbol of everything the knight had suffered through so far, and he was so distracted by his dislike for the short, cloaked man that he almost didn't realize Cassandra had turned to him for advice. A moment's surprise and a quick mental review of the conversation he'd only been half-listening helped him realize she was asking for his advice on which path they were to pursue. He blinked in surprise, and a frown furrowed his brow. "You've made it clear I'm your prisoner. You're asking _me_ to decide?" The question was more hostile than he had meant it to be.

Surprisingly, it was Solas who answered. "You bear the mark," he pointed out simply. The statement hung in the icy air, profound despite the mildness with which it had been uttered. Nevalle had the mark, the magic that could be used to close the Breach. No matter how much he hated it or how little Roderic, Cassandra, or anyone else trusted him, he had that much power.

Nevalle was quiet for a long moment, trying to make up his mind. He had never thought of himself as a good leader. He could rally men in battle, and spot the weakest parts of an enemy's defense, but decisions like this always felt like to solemn a responsibility for him to be trusted with. The matter itself was relatively simple. He could choose to take his small party through a mountain pass, where a scouting party had already been lost, and allow soldiers to create a diversion while he and the others took a safer route. Alternately, they could charge with the soldiers in a head-on assault and punch through the lines of demons to reach this so-called Temple of Sacred Ashes. No matter what choice he made people would die. An all-too-familiar pain throbbed coldly in his chest. People were going to live and die with his choice. It didn't matter that they weren't his people, that they weren't of Neverwinter or of Faerun. People were going to die. All he could do was try to minimize the suffering.

If they took the mountain path, soldiers would die as they traveled through tunnels and caves. They might stand some chance of finding the missing patrol, but it was just as likely that they were already dead and that whatever killed them would still be there. Charging with the soldiers was more risky, but at least if they followed that path Nevalle would be fighting alongside the people who were being asked to risk their lives to get him to the Breach.

"We mount an assault with the soldiers," he declared quietly, voice ringing with an authority that had been absent before. Already, despite his status as prisoner, Nevalle could feel the heavy mantle of leadership and responsibility settling on his shoulders. It was a weight he was familiar with, though it had never been one that had sat well with him. He had never thought of himself as a leader. Leaders were inspiring people who spoke and wrote and played politics with ease. Nevalle was just a knight. He had some talent with a sword, and he'd managed to keep his head above water among the games and half-hearted intrigues of Neverwinter politics, but he had always been a warrior by nature and a leader only by title and assignment. Now, as always, he knew he could not make the right decision, the perfect one. All he could do was make the best decision he could and pray that Tyr would arrange justice for those Nevalle failed.

Once the decision had been made, it took Cassandra only a matter of minutes to show Nevalle and the others the distinctive chest where the stocks of healing potions were kept and to quickly arrange the plan of attack with red-headed woman who had been speaking- arguing, actually- with Roderic when Nevalle and his companions arrived. Though he was starting to see something familiar in Cassandra, Nevalle still had no idea what to make of the hard-eyed, hooded woman with the musical voice. Leliana was her name, he reminded himself idly as he listened to the two women plan. Cassandra had been concerned about her reaching the forward camp, but now that he was seeing the woman for a second time Nevalle had no idea why. Leliana looked like a noblewoman but carried the weight of her armor with ease and moved with a grace that could only be described as deadly. If Nevalle had found Solas unsettling, he found Leliana downright frightening. Her eyes were as sharp as daggers. She reminded the knight a little of Lord Nasher's one-time spymaster, Aarin Gend, and he couldn't help but wonder if Leliana served someone in this world in a similar manner. That question, however, was yet another to be saved for later.

Nevalle offered little during the planning of the attack. Cassandra and Leliana were obviously more than competent, and they knew the terrain and the make-up of their forces better than Nevalle. Their ideas were tactically sound, as far as he could see and inasmuch as tactics were relevant in a brutal assault such as the one they were to mount. The planning lasted only a short while. Soon enough, or perhaps too soon, Nevalle and his companions were on the move again. This time they were accompanied by a small troop of soldiers who were to escort them to the battlefield and then join up with the forces already there to organize a focused attack. It was not long before Nevalle could hear the sounds of pitched battle ahead, all screams and cries and steel on flesh and metal. His own weapon was already drawn, and he could feel his skin beginning to crawl as awareness of the battle ahead set his blood thrumming and honed his focus. Nevalle had never wanted to be a leader, though Tyr had seen fit to give him that responsibility. Always, however, he had been a warrior. And now more than ever, he needed to be able to fight. Steel and strength and sharp edges alone would not free him of his imprisonment in this new plane, but a battle, any battle, was enough to remind him that he was not powerless. He could fight these demons and he could seal the holes in the sky. That was enough for now, and would eventually be enough to get him home.

He had to believe that much.

As they marched nearer and nearer to the battle, he felt everything slowly begin to fall away. The stress, the fear, the pain of the mark on his palm- it all faded to nothingness. In its place was a sensation Nevalle had never bothered to name. It was like the cool bite of a steel sword on a cold morning, the crispness of blood in the snow. It was still and quiet, but it was the sort of quiet that quivered with the tension of a taught bowstring. It was focus, a focus Nevalle had only ever found when he was on the cusp of a battle. It flowed through him and brought with it a calm that sharpened his every sense. The sword in his hand, as different from his own as it was, was an extension of his arm. He was ready, battle-ready, and his hazel eyes shone with a sharp light that promised to anyone who met his gaze that this would not be an easy man to defeat.

Just as his focus was absolute, they reached the battlefield.

It was chaos. The stench of blood, and of whatever black ichor served as blood for the demons, was heavy on the air. Every battlefield was the same in some ways, and the way the smells of blood, piss, and excrement hung in the air and mixed together to form the scent of death was one. This battlefield, however, had a strange quality to it. If the flavor of copper had a smell, it would be close to what Nevalle was smelling. The scent came with an awareness of power, like a pressure hanging in the air around him, that roiled and rolled back and forth. As he fell into familiar rhythms, his sword rising and falling in front of him in old routines that were more than useful enough against the demons, the knight slowly began to realize that the power-pressure rose and fell with the fiery flashes of magic Solas' staff spat as the elf snapped his weapon through the air with fluid grace. There was another rift, just past the edge of the battlefield, and as he drew near he realized the same power-pressure waxed with every pulse of the green tear. It was magic causing the odd pressure he felt. _Magic._ Nevalle had never cast a spell in his life, not so much as a cantrip, yet here he could feel the magic in the air as if it were a wind rushing past him. Was magic itself different in this world? Or had the explosion that had shattered the dark wizard's  grotesque mirror and sent Nevalle here somehow changed him?

 _One step at a time._ Those were all questions for later.

For soldier standing there were two bodies scattered on the snow and rocks around the newest rift, but to Nevalle's surprise the attacking demons were easily held at bay by the small band of surviving soldiers Nevalle's own squad was aiding. A tall man in heavy armor, with some sort of fur mantle across his shoulders, seemed to be rallying the soldiers with orders barked in clear, confident tones. Obviously a captain or leader of some sort, the man fought like a demon. Nevalle had seen a thousand men and women fight with a sword and shield. Hell, he'd _trained_ people to do it. Given that experience, it was clear to him that this man knew what he was doing. More than that, he was a natural. Some people relied on their shield too much, and never bothered to parry with their weapon. Others forgot it was there, and treated it like so much dead weight on their arms. This captain, however, used both in tandem and fought like he'd been doing it all his life. Demon after demon fell before him, and even as he saw to his own part in the battle he seemed constantly aware of the soldiers around him. Here, his shield block a wraith's bolt before it could hit a young woman who seemed too small for her axe and there, a shade's robes were torn to shreds by his sword.

It was decidedly impressive.

Between that captain and his remaining soldiers and the squad led by Nevalle and his companions, the demons were soon scattered and destroyed. Despite that victory, however, the power Nevalle was learning to recognized remained. It hummed in the air, full of threatening potential, and the knight knew without being told that the rift was the epicenter of the magical pressure. This one needed to be sealed, just like the others. The motions already felt natural. Raise his hand, palm angled towards the pulsing hole in the sky, let the power tear out of the mark, connect with the rift, and... _done._ Pain, white-hot, raced through the mark and up his forearm, but it was becoming easier to ignore. Maybe he was used to it, or maybe it was simply less. Regardless, the rift was closed. Nevalle's arm fell back to his side and his cold-steel focus fell away. A familiar soreness washed through him as he sheathed his weapon and settled deep in his muscles, but he ignored it with ease born of long practice.

"You are becoming quite proficient at this," Solas declared thoughtfully. He sounded almost surprised, which was... well, strangely satisfying. The wiza- no, mage. The mage obviously had not expected Nevalle to succeed in closing the rifts without more assistance, but here they were. The knight couldn't help but feel oddly proud.

Varric, however, didn't seem ready to give Nevalle a moment to bask in that pride. "Let's hope it works on the big one," the dwarf said grimly. One of the arms of his crossbow was stained with gore. He was barely winded in spite of the intense battle, and the way he continued watching the battlefield with wary eyes forced Nevalle to reassess him. The dwarf was clearly the cleverest sort of clever bastard, but he was clearly a warrior in his own right.

Before he could respond to either Varric or Solas, a new voice rang out across the battlefield. It was that of the captain Nevalle had noticed before, and when the knight turned away from his companions he could see the man approaching them with a confident stride.

"Lady Cassandra," the man said with relief in his words. "You managed to close the rift. Well done." He was, as Nevalle had noted before, dressed in heavy armor and wrapped with warm trimmings. He carried the weight with ease, much as Nevalle himself did, and the way he carried himself assured Nevalle that his first impression had been correct. This man was a warrior born, raised, trained, and experienced. He had blonde hair, a little lighter than Nevalle's own, and golden eyes set above dark bags. He was... well, he was handsome, Nevalle would say. Objectively. He seemed strained, however, and tired. That made sense, though. The man had been fighting these demons for Tyr only knew how long. It was a weight that would sit heavy on anyone's shoulders.

"Do not congratulate me, Commander," Cassandra replied, slightly out of breath. So Nevalle had been wrong: the man was a commander, not a captain. Were ranks different here? He would have to find out. "This is the prisoner's doing," she explained as she turned to Nevalle. Something in her gaze was softer now than it had been before. She still seemed far from friendly, but now it seemed she had at least accepted that Nevalle was trying his best to help.

The commander's brows rose in surprise, and he turned to Nevalle curiously. His gaze was frankly appraising, but it was difficult for the knight to guess just what the other warrior made of him. In spite of that, Nevalle offered him a quick nod of acknowledgement. The man was more than competent, easily his equal, and Nevalle was far from ashamed to admit it. He'd known soldiers and nobles alike who couldn't stand the thought of _not_ being superior to everyone around them, and they'd always rubbed him the wrong way.

"Is that so?" the commander asked curiously. His brows rose higher still at the nod, but he returned it carefully after a moment. "I hope they're right about you." His jaw tightened. "We've lost a lot of people getting you here." There was true sorrow in his voice, and it sent a pang through Nevalle's chest.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. He knew what it was like to lose soldiers. It hurt, every time, and it killed Nevalle to know that his decision to take this path had led to the deaths of people not even under his direct command. The dead littering the battlefield had owed him no loyalty, but they were dead all the same. The leather of his gloves creaked quietly as his fingers curled into fists by his side. "I truly am. Whatever I can do to help in this fight, I will."

The words obviously weren't at all reassuring, but Nevalle hadn't expected they would be. Had he been in the commander's place, meeting a stranger who was suspected of an act of terrible violence and whom also happened to be the only one able to deal with the consequences of that act, he wouldn't be too terribly impressed by empty words either. "We'll see soon enough," the man said simply. "Won't we?" There was a veiled threat in the short reply, and an open one in the way the man's hand rested on his sword. This was not someone Nevalle wanted to cross. Perhaps he could best him in single combat, perhaps not. _Best not to let things reach that point_.

Once he'd had his fill of studying Nevalle, the commander turned, businesslike once more, to Cassandra. "The way to the temple should be clear," he reported. "Leliana will try to meet you there."

Cassandra responded with a sharp nod. Everything about her seemed sharp, from her features to her weapons to the way she moved and fought. "Then we'd best move quickly," she said flatly. "Give us time, Commander." That last request sent a shiver through Nevalle. It was the sort of order he'd only had to give once or twice before, the sort one only gave when it was do or die. She was asking the commander to fight until the very last, just to buy them the time to... to what? To close the hideous gash in the sky? To make a last-ditch attempt to fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong? Whatever their goal, and however they might try to achieve it, Cassandra was asking more men to die for them.

For Nevalle.

It was clear that the commander understood the significance of Cassandra's request as well as Nevalle did. He nodded slowly, vulnerable for just a moment as he glanced around the battlefield. That vulnerability was gone the moment his eyes snapped back to Cassandra. He straightened his shoulders, hand resting on his sword, and nodded again. "Maker watch over you," he said solemnly. His gaze traveled over their small band, and lingered for a moment on Nevalle. "For all our sakes." With that he was gone, striding across the battlefield once more. He stopped to offer a wounded soldier his shoulder, and didn't look back as he all but carried the wounded man off the battlefield.

Cassandra wasted no more time than the commander did. Without even waiting for the man's blessing, she turned and marched up the rocky hill. Nevalle hesitated for a moment, glancing after the disappearing commander, but quickly followed Cassandra. Only as they crossed the rise and approached the smoldering ruins of what Nevalle could only assume was their destination did he realize he had not heard the commander's name. He would have to try and learn it, later. If there was a later.

If either of them survived.

Sinking into a grim mood, Nevalle followed Cassandra down the hillside, over a short ledge, and onto a path that led to an opening in the ruined walls.


	8. Heaven, Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a long time in coming. Due to school and other obligations, I had to take a break from this fic. Hopefully over the next few months I will be updating more regularly. My goal is once every three weeks. Thanks for the patience!

The Temple of Sacred Ashes, Cassandra had called this place. The word name invoked a thousand different images and ideals. Soaring spires, strong walls adorned with tapestry or statuary depicting gods and goddesses, snow on the roof and warm fires inside- all the things a temple should be. If he ignored the hole in the sky, the smell of blood, and the distant sounds of screams in favor of focusing on the towering mountains and beautiful, stark landscape, Nevalle could almost imagine a temple nestled in the crags between mountaintops. It would be a beautiful place, a bastion of civilization and hope in an unforgiving place.

The temple Cassandra had guided Nevalle to was none of those things.

There were echoes of the temple here and there, to be sure, hidden in the crumbled walls and broken ornaments. Had he not known the place was once a holy site, however, Nevalle would have guessed he’d entered a hellscape. The ruins twisted and folded in on themselves in ways that didn’t seem to make sense. Explosions of the mundane sort sent rubble flying, but it didn’t take a wizard’s knowledge to see that this explosion could only have been the result of strange magic. It had warped the world around it, shattering stone and twisting metal into shapes that bore eerie resemblances to screaming faces.

If that had been the end of it, Nevalle wouldn’t have been so unsettled. Stone and metal, no matter how twisted, were little more than building materials. It seemed, however, that the gods had decided to do their best to replicate a hell on earth. Bodies, some shaped and changed in the same way as the stone, littered the blackened ground. All of them looked almost posed, stuck in positions of suffering and mouths opened as if to release tortured screams. They almost could have been statues, but their withered skin crumbled to ash with even the gentlest touch.

And still there was more. Jutting sharply from amid the rubble in short, dagger-like spikes and monstrous stalagmites was… something. It could have been stone save for the way it pulsed and glowed. A red light shone dimly from the surface of the substance, mingling with the green shadows the massive hole in the sky had cast over the wreckage of the temple. The rift was directly overhead now, a maelstrom of green light and faint gibbering screams. It almost looked like the skies themselves were being consumed by the tear. Where the green light touched the red stone-thing it looked like sickness, or malevolence given solid form. It wasn’t just the light, however, that made the stone-thing unsettling. The stuff was _warm_. Nevalle could feel the heat, like a pleasant fire on a cold day, radiating from the glowing substance as he passed by. The effect was disturbingly comforting, as if something wanted him to move closer. It wanted him to embrace the red light, to run his hands over the smooth surface and bask in the welcoming warmth until he was lost in it. Compounding the allure was the soft hum filling the air, music just barely audible and disturbingly intense. It promised a thousand different things, and it scared the hell out of Nevalle. It was evil, and it was _hungry._

No matter how the scenery unsettled the knight, however, his companions seemed steadier. Perhaps they had already seen the ruins. It wouldn’t have been true to say that they were utterly unfazed, however. Solas seemed fascinated, and inappropriately amused. His eyes were sharp and bright as he studied their surroundings, but the elf was ultimately quite relaxed. Varric, too, seemed relatively at ease. Where Solas was fascinated, however, Varric was wary. The monstrous crossbow in his hands seemed small in the face of whatever awful power had destroyed the temple so completely, but he carried it as if he was ready to fight the whole damn world.

And then there was Cassandra. The battle-hardened core of strength was still in her, keeping her shoulders straight and her head held high, but the lines of her expression were softened by a deep sorrow. Whatever the temple had housed, whichever deity it had honored, it had obviously been an important place to her. Perhaps she’d lost friends there. _That_ was a heartache Nevalle understood all too well, and seeing the shadows of a similar pain hanging over Cassandra made him feel closer to the woman for a few, short moments. Then, as if recalling there purpose and finding some solace in it, the woman shook her head and glanced at Nevalle.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” she declared unnecessarily, striding ahead with a determined gait. Unwilling to be left behind, and certain she wouldn’t hesitate to drag him by his ankles if he tarried too long, Nevalle followed. “What’s left of it. This is where you walked out of the Fade, and where our soldiers found you.”

There it was again, that word. Fade. Nevalle had no idea what it meant. The demons were coming from the Fade, he’d gathered, and the Fade was the place the holes in the sky opened to. Apparently it was also the place he’d come from. If demons gathered there, then perhaps it was the Abyss? But no. No, that idea didn’t match the tone in Cassandra’s voice. She spoke of the Fade not as one would speak of the hells, but as if it were another nation or a neighboring city. A dangerous one, perhaps, but ultimately another place. A small, distracted part of Nevalle found himself wishing for a quill and paper. There were questions he would have to ask, when at last there was time, and the nature of this Fade was but one of many. For now, though… _One step at a time._

“They say a woman was in the rift behind you,” Cassandra went on. Though she didn’t quite give it voice, the suggestion of a question lingered in her words. “No one knows who she was.”

A shrug was the only reply Nevalle could offer. The temple had his skin crawling, but had revealed nothing new in his hazy memories. Maybe there had been a woman. Maybe there hadn’t. There had been darkness, and fear, and… And other things. He just couldn’t remember what. Fortunately, their arrival at the entrance to the temple saved him from any questioning.

Apparently satisfied that Nevalle could find his way through the blasted-apart interior of the temple without guidance, Cassandra slowed and fell into step behind the knight. The sight that awaited them just past the few remaining walls was terrifying.

Nevalle considered himself a brave man. He wasn’t so vain as to consider himself braver than any other soldier, but his station required a certain degree of courage. What he saw in the temple, however, shook him to his core. From a distance it had seemed that the great tear in reality over the temple was eating the sky. That judgement had been wrong. The thing was eating the _world._

The interior of the temple was surprisingly clear. In the very center of the rubble, a great spire of the evil red stone spiraled upwards in shapes that seemed to ignore rules of nature in favor of forming angles and lines that made Nevalle’s eyes water when his gaze lingered too long. The stuff rose from the ground as if trying to reach the hole in the sky far above. There, where the green light was strongest and Nevalle could just make out skittering shadows clawing at the thin boundaries between the Fade and the earth, stones torn from the temple hovered and spun. It was surreal, the concept of destruction given form in the most eerie and sickening way. As the knight stood there, the green-red light tinting his skin and hair with sickly shades, a deep and dreadful conviction flooded every part of his being.

If they did not destroy this rift, the entire world would eventually fall.

The sound of footsteps on rubble and dirt had Nevalle spinning in place, reaching for his sword on instinct, but he quickly recognized the new arrival as the sharp, red-haired woman from the cell and the forward camp. She led a group of soldiers dressed in the same livery as Cullen’s men had been, and carried a bow on her back. While he’d never been much of an archer, even Nevalle could see that it was a finely-made weapon. Upon seeing her, Cassandra rushed forward and quickly began issuing orders. They weren’t loud commands, but the way she spoke made it clear they were not open to argument. Leliana, apparently accustomed to working with the more outspoken woman, nodded and quickly darted off alongside the soldiers she’d brought.

The preparations for battle- positioning soldiers, anticipating orders and following through on them- was oddly comforting to Nevalle. He could feel himself relaxing, finding the quiet stillness he’d learned to embrace before battles. It was like the calm before a storm, and its familiarity made it easy for the man to steel himself against the terror of the horrific thing in the sky. By the time Cassandra returned his eyes were clear and bright, and he was studying the temple once more. This time, it was with a tactician’s eye.

“This is your chance to end this,” she said quietly, standing close to Nevalle. “Are you ready?”

The question was almost laughable. No man, Nevalle had learned over the years, was ever ready for any battle. They could be prepared, even confident, but they were never truly ready. Here, in a place so far removed from his home that he had no way of knowing if he’d ever return, he wasn’t sure enough of anything to be ready. But it didn’t matter. That was the trick. Readiness didn’t matter. All that mattered was the act.

“Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“This rift was the first. And it is the key.” Solas, not Cassandra, answered. “Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

So that was that. The company took their time making their way down to the temple floor. The terrain was hazardous, more hazardous than Nevalle even realized. While they were passing through one particularly tight spot, Varric’s hand shot out to stop the knight from brushing up against a jutting pile of the strange red stuff. “Don’t touch that shit,” the dwarf said sharply. “Cassandra, you know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker.”

“I see it,” came Cassandra’s curt reply. Lyrium was a word Nevalle was totally unfamiliar with, but the woman’s tone confirmed what he had already figured out for himself. The stuff, the lyrium, wasn’t good.

“But what’s it doing he-“ Whatever Varric was about to ask was suddenly cut off by the booming echo of a deep, sinister voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It dripped malevolence and clawed at Nevalle’s ears, somehow both familiar and alien. As the group pressed onwards it fell silent, only to pick up again here and there. The thing spoke of sacrifices and victory, and with every twisted declaration Nevalle and his companions grew more and more tense. Then, just as they reached the floor of the temple, a woman’s voice rang out. _“Some, help me!”_ Behind Nevalle, Cassandra gasped.

 “What’s going on here?” The reply chilled Nevalle to the bone. He recognized the voice, and could feel a ghost of the words on his lips. The words were his, echoing now on the air as damning evidence of just how much he didn’t know about his arrival to this strange place. It shook him to his core, fracturing even the cool focus he had let himself fall into in preparation for the battle, and he’d only just regained control of himself when Cassandra stepped forward.

“That was _your_ voice,” she whispered, her tone heavy with accusation and her eyes dark and hard. “Most Holy called out to you. But…”

Before she could find the words to finished her helpless question, a sharp flash of light from the rift in the temple interrupted them all. It blinded Nevalle for a moment, but when the light faded he and his companions were met with a scene painted in red and green light. An elderly woman in white robes and a headdress hung in the air, suspended by the magic of a towering shadowy figure with eyes of fire. She cried out for help, fear etched into the lines of her face. There was a booming sound, like the echo of a door opening, and more light still coalesced into an image of Nevalle rushing into the invisible room. _“What’s going on here?”_ the image demanded. The elderly woman cried out a warning while the shadow stirred and raised a hand as if gathering some foul magic. Then, with another crack of light, the scene disappeared.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra rushed forward, forgetting the dangers they faced in favor of finding answers. Her eyes were filled with desperate fervor. “And the Divine, is she-? Was the vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t remember!” Nevalle’s reply was sharper than he’d meant it to be, but the sudden onslaught of questions interrupted the mantra he’d been clinging to. _One step at a time._ Cassandra had a hundred questions, and he had a thousand, but they had to focus on one thing at a time. They had to close the rift. Fortunately for both warriors, Solas offered an answer.

“Echoes of what happened here,” the elf mused. As Cassandra questioned Nevalle, Solas had wandered forward to regard the rift with a sort of awe. “The Fade bleeds into this place.” Cassandra had spoken of the Fade as one would a dangerous place, but Solas’ intonation was different. He murmured the name like it was a lover’s, or an old friend’s. After a moment he gathered himself. “This rift is not sealed,” he went on, capturing Cassandra’s attention enough to pull her from Nevalle’s side. “But it is closed… Albeit temporarily.” The way he studied Nevalle, like the knight was a fascinating specimen, was somewhat unsettling. “I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely.” Without realizing it, the knight flexed his marked hand as Solas spoke. “However,” the mage continued, “opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra nodded sharply. “That means demons. Raising her voice, she waved a hand at the soldiers lining the floor and walkways of the temple. “Stand back!” There was a flurry of movement and whispers on the air as swords were drawn and arrows were nocked. The sounds pushed Nevalle deeper into his cold focus, and he drew his borrowed sword with one hand. The point rested just an inch off the floor as he stepped forward, the mark on his hand shining brighter as he approached the rift. A nod from Cassandra was the only signal he needed to know the time had come. Uncertainty and doubt ate at his confidence as he lifted his hand, but a spark from the rift stirred power somewhere deep within Nevalle. It wasn’t a power he could control, but as he let out a deep breath it washed through him in rapid waves, coiling and churning wildly until it burst free. An arc of light leapt from the knight’s palm to the very center of the rift. There was the oddest sensation of pulling and tearing in the back of Nevalle’s mind, until suddenly the rift burst open with an inhuman screeching sound. A roar followed on the heels of the screech, and the ground itself shook as something huge fell from the tear to the earth. It had the height of a giant and twice one’s girth, and too many eyes to ever be called humanoid. It laughed, a low chuckle too smooth for its monstrous appearance, and electricity crackled in the air as it gathered itself for an attack.

And Nevalle smiled. _This_ was an enemy he could fight. _This_ was something on which he could unleash the pent-up anger and fear, something that would offer a challenge and a victory and a release from the questions and uncertainty. _This_ was a battle.

Wrapping the fingers of his marked hand around the leather-bound hilt of his sword, Nevalle let free a ringing battlecry and leapt into the fray.


	9. The Inquisition Reborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days, look at me go. (Don't get used to it.)

Under any other circumstance, the cabin Nevalle awoke in would have been a pleasant place. In fact, it was just the sort of cabin he had occasionally fancied building for himself one day. It was small but warm, all dark wood and clean white walls. The fire place was huge, crafted of gray stone and filled with a crackling flame that lent warmth and a cheerful light to the one room. There were bookshelves along one wall, and crates of supplies stacked near the door. Herbs and ingredients hanging from the ceiling beams to dry filled the air with a faint aroma that suggested home-cooked meals shared with loved ones. All the place lacked was a dog on the cheerful rug in front of the hearth and someone to share the bed and numerous blankets with.

Had it not been for the splitting pain in Nevalle’s head, he would have rather liked the place. Headaches were nothing new to the knight, but feeling as if one’s head was being pried open by a dwarf seeking mithril was hardly a pleasant experience. In this particular instance it was more than enough to blind him to the comforts of the warm room and bright fire. Eyes closed tightly against the too-bright light, Nevalle used a hand force himself upright and rubbed at a temple with the other. A low groan escaped him. Immediately after, a startled little shriek made the pain in his head all the worse.

Cracking his eyes back open with an oath, Nevalle glanced sharply in the direction of the sound only to find a young woman- an elf, by the points of her ears- cowering on the ground. Cowering? Tyr’s ass, she was either cowering or bowing, and neither sat well with Nevalle just then. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he grumbled, pushing the blankets out of his way and swing his feet to the floor. Someone had apparently taken it upon themselves to change him into fresh clothing while he was out. Lovely. With luck he would never found out who it had been and wouldn’t have to deal with knowing they’d seen him naked.

How long had he been unconscious? The last thing Nevalle remembered was a resounding crack and a sudden flash of light leaping from the rift to the massive Breach. A second crack had knocked him off his feet as the Breach… closed? Had they succeeded? Trying to force more memories to surface only made his head hurt worse, so Nevalle returned his attention to the elf on the floor.

Later, the knight felt guilty about how badly he’d scared her and how he’d treated her. He wasn’t quite rude, but he _was_ short-tempered. It didn’t help matters that the girl all but insisted on treating him like he was some menacing threat or mighty power, but that wasn’t an excuse. In the moment, however, he just wanted the girl gone so he could think straight. Much to his disappointment, he didn’t get that time even once she’d departed- or fled, rather. _“At once!”_ she’d insisted. He was to see Cassandra at once. And _Roderick_ would be there. A disgusted noise bubbled up from Nevalle’s throat as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing at his temple as if he could relieve the pounding pressure trapped within his skull. If Cassandra had really said at once, he strongly suspected there would be hell to pay for any delay. Besides, she could answer his questions. If he was lucky he might even get to hit Roderick. _That_ would feel good.

By the time Nevalle had found his boots (they were left by the door, which was really where he should have looked first) and sword (under the mattress, for some unfathomable reason) the knight’s headache had subsided a little. Strapping on his sword was, fortunately, a matter of muscle memory. His mind was elsewhere, running down the long list of questions he had for Cassandra, right up until he opened the door and was frozen in place by the sight outside.

A great throng, soldiers and civilians alike, was gathered just beyond the door to the hut where Nevalle had been sequestered. They lined the walkway, leaving him a path to a set of great stairs leading to higher level of the town, and they were utterly silent. Their gazes were heavy on Nevalle. There was some judgement there, and fear, but most of the onlookers simply seemed watchful. Their world was in danger, and many had lost family and friends. Everything was strange, down to the man with the glowing hand, and those gathered outside Nevalle’s door wanted to know just what he was going to do about it.

As the knight made his way out of the house and towards the stairs he was reminded of his knighting ceremony. It had been years ago, but he had felt just the same then as he did now. The stares made him conscious of every step he took and every move he made, and the same weighty air of anticipation hung in the air. It was decidedly unpleasant. Such intense scrutiny made him feel… inadequate? No. Afraid. He was afraid of failing those who put their faith in him, and he always had been. Yet the crowd was doing just that as they watched him, and as he walked past he heard them whisper a title he’d never heard before. _“That’s him. The Herald. The Herald of Andraste.”_ Whether or not they blamed him for the destruction of the temple, they knew what he’d done to close the rifts and fight the Breach. Now, lacking any other, they were pinning their hopes on him. It was a heavy weight, and already it filled Nevalle with fear. What if he failed them? What if he wasn’t enough?

 _One step at a time,_ he reminded himself as he reached the stairs and the crowd fell away. _One step at a time._

Looking skyward was easier than facing the crowds, so Nevalle turned his gaze to the clouds. All too quickly, a green glow to the north caught his eye. The Breach. Though it no longer boiled and rolled like it had before, the tear remained. It was like a sore, drawing the eye in and upsetting the mind until the watcher had to look away. So they’d failed. Stilled or not, the Breach remained. The rifts did as well, presumably, and that meant the demons could still run free.

The mark on his hand ached as he curled his fingers into a white-knuckled fist.

There were fewer people at the higher level, and their stares weren’t quite as heavy a burden to bear. The elf woman in the hut had told him that Cassandra wished to speak with him in the _chantry_. That was another term Nevalle didn’t recognize, but the largest building in the town seemed to be the one just past the upper courtyard. Something about it just _screamed_ ‘church.’ It was a well-kept building with sturdy walls, and looked large enough to hold the entire town. A high tower fronted the building, stained glass sparkling in the windows, and wide wooden doors with bright bronze detailing barred the way. As Nevalle neared he could see that the bronzework depicted suns and symbols that seemed religious in nature. The images weren’t ones he recognized, but that was no surprise. The fact that he was in a new world wasn’t far from the forefront of Nevalle’s mind, and though it still frightened him he had finally accepted it. Among the suns and swords were repeated depictions of a woman with open arms. Perhaps she was the goddess to whom the temple was dedicated? One more question to ask.

As soon as Nevalle pushed the doors open, warmth rushing out to him and banishing the chill of the mountain air, he was certain he’d come to the right place. Cassandra’s voice, as powerful as the woman herself, echoed down the long main hall. The anger in it reminded Nevalle of the rage with which she’d hurled accusations at him the first time they’d met. This time he felt fortunate to not be the target of her rage. The realization that Roderick _was_ the target brought a brief, strained smile to Nevalle’s face.

When he reached the small door at the end of the stone hall, Nevalle didn’t hesitate to throw it open and stride inside. The room seemed to be a place for meetings. A council chamber in time of peace perhaps, but the map hastily thrown on the heavy wooden table in the center of the space suggested it had now become a war room. Cassandra stood behind that table, with Leliana at her side. Roderick was off to the side, eyes wide and wild. For all that he was an insufferable ball of slime, rage gave him an undeniable presence. Coupled with his ornate robes and stern features, the man’s righteous fury gave him the appearance of a crusader or some sort. As Nevalle entered he made sure to hold his head high and keep his shoulders straight. Confidence, faked or real, could only help him in this facing a man like Roderick. There was sure to be a confrontation, judging by the arguing he’d heard and he would have to face it head on.

Of course, no amount of confidence could combat the inflated sense of ego that seemed to be Roderick’s ends and means in life.

“Chain him!” the councilor demanded shrilly as soon as he noticed Nevalle. “I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial!” Much to Nevalle’s vindictive pleasure, the guards at the door did nothing until Cassandra spoke.

“Disregard that,” she ordered. “And leave us.” _That_ order, the guards obeyed. With a salute, in fact. So Cassandra outranked the councilor, or was at least better-liked. Good to know. Judging by Roderick’s response, however, she was far from all-powerful.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” he snarled, turning back to the table. The man was clearly used to life as a force to be reckoned with, but Cassandra simply didn’t care. It was like watching a wolf trying to intimidate a dragon.

“The Breach is stable,” Cassandra explained, eyes narrowing as she rounded the table and stalked towards Roderick. To the councilor’s credit, he didn’t retreat. Nevalle wasn’t sure he would have been able to stand his ground so firmly. Still in her armor, scarred and fierce, Cassandra was nothing short of menacing. “But it is _still_ a threat. I will not ignore it.”

A soft sigh from the far side of the table caught Nevalle’s attention. He glanced over to find Leliana staring at him. Though the sound had been exasperated, there was nothing of it in her expression. While Cassandra radiated strength that could be used to protect or intimidate, Leliana’s aura was one of pure danger. Lovely as she was, and she was easily one of the most beautiful women Nevalle had ever seen, something in her eyes whispered of blood and daggers in the dark. Whatever sound she made, whatever hint at her inner thoughts that she let slip free, had to be intentional. A spymaster like Leliana- and what else could she be, really?- never did anything without purpose.

So the sigh had been meant to get Nevalle’s attention, which meant she wanted something from him. Once he met Leliana’s eyes, she shot a glance at Roderick and Cassandra with a raised eyebrow. The two strong personalities seemed more than ready to launch into another battle of wills. Ah. That was it.

“I did my best.” The words were the first to leap to Nevalle’s lips, but they served their purpose. Both Cassandra and Roderick glanced his way, temporarily distracted from one another. Unfortunately, serving as their distraction meant Roderick’s ire was directed Nevalle’s way once more.

“Oh, I’m so sure,” he drawled snidely. “And here you are now. Alive and free. A convenient outcome as far as you’re concerned.”

“Have a care, Councilor.” Cassandra’s stern reply cut off any angry response Nevalle could have mustered. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

And there, apparently, was the cue Leliana had been waiting for. Nevalle wasn’t sure how he felt about being used to steer the conversation in the direction she’d wanted it to go, but he suspected she was utterly apathetic on the matter of his feelings. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect.” The woman’s accent sounded faintly Waterdhavian. The hint of familiarity should have been comforting, but there was enough of a difference that the overall effect was simply unsettling. “Perhaps they died with the others- or have allies who yet live.” The last was pointed, sharp enough to cut and kill, and aimed directly at Councilor Roderick.

The man’s eyes went wide as saucers. “ _I_ am a suspect?” he sputtered, seeming for all the world like he wanted to say more and simply couldn’t find his tongue.

“You,” Leliana confirmed with a nod. “And many others.”

The red on Roderick’s face almost matched that on his robes. For a brief, uncharitable moment Nevalle half-hoped the man was going to keel over from outrage. His fury seemed to make it difficult to find words, but eventually some burst free. “Me, but _not_ the prisoner?” he cried, all but shaking.

“I heard the voices in the temple.” Now it was Cassandra’s turn again. The way the two women joined forces to harass Roderick was impressive, and Nevalle made a mental note to never anger both of them at the same time. “The Divine called to him for help.” The hint of disdain coloring her words suggested she couldn’t quite understand why anyone, much less the old woman in the magic scene, would call out to Nevalle for help. At least she was defending him, not that Roderick was swayed.

“So his survival,” the councilor shot back. “That _thing_ on his hand?” Nevalle flexed his fingers. “All a coincidence?”

“Providence.” Nevalle’s gaze snapped to Cassandra. Providence? _Providence?_ No. No, he wasn’t a gift from the gods. And surely Cassandra would be the last one to think so highly of him. It didn’t make sense. “The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour,” she concluded with firm conviction.

Oh. She _did_ believe it. She meant every word. Dread, cold and unsettling, wormed its way into Nevalle’s heart. Such claims came with expectations that were too easy to fall short of. The more faith people placed in him, the easier it would be to fail them. Besides, he _wasn’t_ a gift from some ‘Maker.’ He was just… Just Nevalle, a knight of little more consequence than any other. What had he to offer a woman who thought he was a gift from her god?

“Nobody sent me here,” he protested quietly, feeling faintly ashamed of himself for contradicting Cassandra’s beliefs. The woman’s eyes shot to him, something fiery in her gaze. “There was an accident, of some sort. A wizard. I’ve never even heard of this Maker.” He shrugged helplessly, already regretting speaking up at all. His words didn’t seem to have much of an effect on Cassandra, save for a slight tightening of her jaw.

When Cassandra’s reply came, she spoke with the sort of slow and measured tone impatient adults adopted with idiot children. “No matter who you are, or what you believe, or _how_ you came to be here, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it,” she explained firmly. When she was done, however, she turned and strode away to search the bookshelves lining the back of the room. Another pang of guilt hit Nevalle. Had his words found their mark after all? He didn’t mean to challenge the woman’s faith. Only to correct her, but with the way she retreated… Well, there was nothing that could be done about it. He _wasn’t_ the result of divine intervention, not unless the gods had a truly twisted sense of humor.

Leliana took it upon herself to smooth over the awkward moment, stepping into the space Cassandra had occupied. “The Breach remains,” she pointed out as if to dismiss the brief conflict. “And your mark is still our only hope of closing it.”

“That is _not_ for you to decide!” Roderick exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. A tirade was incoming, that much was obvious, but the infuriated man was cut short by Cassandra’s sudden return. There was a heavy tome in her hands, leather-bound and adorned with a symbol matching that on her armor. There was a weight to the tone that had little to do with its size. It drew the eye, and the care with which it had been crafted whispered of powerful secrets contained within the thick pages. The sight of it had Roderick falling silent, eyes wide. Dust swirled into the air when Cassandra slammed the book down on the table, the motes catching the light of the torches and dancing through the dark room.

“You know what this is, Chancellor.” Cassandra’s voice was surprisingly soft, but no less a challenge for it. “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.” There was a slight emphasis on the _us_ , as if to make it clear she wasn’t including Roderick in her words. Her gloved hand slid off the book as she once more rounded the table and strode towards Roderick. This time he didn’t stand his ground. He couldn’t. Something about Cassandra had changed, as if the steel core within her had been replaced by fire. Where before she had been menacing she was now a force of nature, something just short of divine and filled to overflowing with purpose. It shone in her eyes and gave her every movement an air of power and conviction. Even Leliana seemed taken aback.

“As of this moment,” Cassandra continued, voice ringing with absolute certainty. “I declare the Inquisition reborn.” Roderick could only back away so far before he hit the wall, and when he stopped moving Cassandra jabbed a finger into his chest. “We will close the Breach. We will find those responsible. And we will restore order.” With each declaration she poked Roderick again, the stricken man shaking with each jab. “And we will do it with or without your approval.”

The Inquisition. The name was powerful in and of itself, heavy with purpose and history. Nevalle had no idea what the Inquisition was, or what it had been before this day, but he knew with certainty as powerful as Cassandra’s that he was witnessing history in the making. The knight had been lucky enough to feel this way twice before. As a young soldier, barely more than a boy, he had seen the Hero of Neverwinter leading the fight against Morag and the Luskans. The authority and power the Hero had wielded with such ease had left an indelible mark on Nevalle, and when he recognized that same sort of power contained within a refugee-turned-knight from West Harbor he’d known he was once more witnessing the journey of one who would change the course of the world. The Knight Captain had done just that, even more spectacularly than the Hero had. Now, for a third time, Nevalle could feel the hush in the air as fate held its breath and awaited the changes that were to come.

In the face of a certainty as strong as Cassandra’s, any response Roderick could have mustered would have seemed weak indeed. Apparently realizing how badly he’d lost the battle, the councilor gathered what was last of his strength and, with a last disdainful look at Cassandra and a venomous glare for Nevalle, departed.

The door had barely closed behind him when Leliana circled the desk, moving with a fluid grace at odds with Cassandra’s careful control. “This is the Divine’s directive,” she murmured, eyes locked on the book. With the way she watched the thing, an onlooker might have thought it contained all the secrets of the universe. “Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.” At the last, her gaze left the book and fell upon Nevalle. He felt as if she was dissecting him, seeking out his every motivation and hidden fear.

“We’re not ready,” she said at last. There was a glimmer in her eye, as if something she had seen in Nevalle had taken her by surprise. “We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.” The way she listed the problems they faced was startlingly casual, as if they were minor stumbling blocks rather than obstacles enough to stall any campaign.

Cassandra seemed no more concerned than her friend and ally. “We have no choice,” she said simply. “We must act now.” Following Leliana’s gaze, she looked to Nevalle. “With you at our side.”

There were a thousand questions Nevalle needed answered. Where was he and how could he get home? What was the Inquisition, and how could they close the Breach when they’d tried and failed once already?

Why Nevalle, and not someone better suited?

In that moment, however, he knew the questions didn’t matter. There was a sense of the profound still hanging over them. Fate held its breath still, waiting and watching to see what Nevalle would say. Rejecting the Inquisition was an option, in theory at least, but how could he make that decision in good faith? If Nevalle was the only one who could close the rifts and seal the Breach, he could no more abandon the people of this world now than he could have when Cassandra dragged him to the temple. The blood of every person who died as a result would be on his hands, and thousands would suffer. Nevalle had seen the Breach with his own eyes, had watched as it swallowed the sky and spat forth demons. The horror had been indescribable, and he was a soldier blooded in more battles than he cared to remember. To imagine a family destroyed by that terror, or a child forced to face the rips in the sky, was too much.

“Alright.” And just like that, purpose washed over them as fate released its breath. The course of history had just been changed, for better or for worse, and Nevalle had tied himself to the fate of this new world. The knight’s voice was surprisingly steady. This world meant nothing to him, but already he had seen the perils it faced and the people who would suffer and die if no one rose to defend them. The weight of a hundred eyes had been on him, asking him what he would do to save their ways of life. Demons had done their best to drag him down and make him bleed out into the mountain snow, and warriors who were leaders in their own right had put their trust in him when they had a thousand or more reasons not to. Whether he liked it or not, and whether or not he was up to the challenge, Nevalle’s role in this Inquisition was already set. The knight’s eyes were bright with fire as he met Cassandra's gaze and held it steadily for a moment, then did the same with Leliana. It was not the flame that drove Cassandra, all passion and faith. It was a quieter flame, but one that burned as hot as hers. It was determination, the same that had pulled Nevalle through the war with Luskan and the battle against the forces of the King of Shadows. It was the same flame that had driven him from a home on the edge of Beggar’s Alley to Lord Nasher’s right hand, and the one that had sent him leaping towards the old wizard’s mirror without a thought for his own safety. Then, as now, the lives of others had depended on him.

He would not fail them.

“We’ve got work to do.”


End file.
